


The Monster of Notre Dame

by PeachyM00NShine



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Hunchback of Notre Dame AU, M/M, Multi, Musical References, Notre Dame AU, hond au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 64,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24852397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachyM00NShine/pseuds/PeachyM00NShine
Summary: (Brought over from FFN) Adopted from Kat With Shamrocks) When Ivan, the mysterious bell-ringer of Notre Dame, attends a festival, he meets Alfred; the gypsy boy who will open his eyes to the world he has been hiding from. [features Rusame Germerica and UKUS]
Relationships: America & Canada & Sealand Familial Relationship (Hetalia), America/England (Hetalia), America/Germany (Hetalia), America/Russia (Hetalia)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 51





	1. The Bells of Notre Dame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1st: I began working on this fic in 2013 and I as a person and a writer have changed since then. So please forgive me for the use of the g*psy slur but also please understand that given the source material and the setting that the use of the word is kinda unavoidable. Like, I'm not going to be throwing the g-word around everywhere but you should know that it IS going to come up.
> 
> 2nd: This fic is a musical! While I am mostly inspired by the Disney film, I also am taking inspiration from and referencing other variations/adaptations including non musical ones.
> 
> 3rd: The song used in this chapter is The Bells of Notre Dame most of which is from the Animated Disney Film but there are also traces of the Der Glockner von Notre Dame musical.

**_The Bells of Notre Dame…_ **

In the rosy city of Paris, the denizens are awoken by the echoes and reverberations of the bourdon bell. Its chimes always ring in the new day and command the people to start their tasks and chores. But on this day, the sixth of January, 1482 to be precise, people take delight in hearing the bourdon being followed by a series of lighter chimes. It is as if the metallic notes are encouraging everyone to take their time and enjoy as much of the day as possible.

Yet there is one such man who needs no reminder to enjoy life; the ever vivacious and mysterious puppeteer known only as Francois.

_"Morning in Paris, the city awakes to the bells of Notre Dame…"_

Francois has no house, no legal property, and no means of getting from here to there, yet every morning his caravan (which doubles as his theatre) would be found in a spot completely different from the previous. Whether it is to have a fresh audience for his shows or to thwart any vagrancy charges is debatable, but on this particular morning, Francois' cart is found on a quaint street beside the Parisian pearl, Notre Dame.

_"The fisherman fishes, the bakerman bakes to the bells of Notre Dame…"_

Francois sits contently in his caravan. Putting the finishing touches on his harlequin clothes, he sews some small bells onto a golden-dyed tippet while singing strong and smoothly for anyone willing to hear. He makes sure to wink or blow a kiss to anyone kind (or foolish) enough to send a denier or two his way. _"To the big bells as loud as thunder…To the little bells soft as a psalm..."_ Most people however, hardly pay him any attention as he sings of the beautiful bells that have become such an important part of the city and its people. They clutch their skirts and change purses; either turning up their noses in disgust or ducking away in fear. In turn, Francois does not acknowledge them. After all, such behaviors are expected when one is a gypsy. _"And some say the soul of the city is the toll of the bells…"_ As his song finishes, Francois sees that he has attracted an audience; a handful of children who probably have not even a worthless English coin in their pockets, but still an audience. _"The Bells of Notre Dame..._ Listen! They are beautiful, non? A symphony of color, sound, and moods," the puppeteer smiles softly as he soaks in the atmosphere. To Francois, even the ripest of women and wine cannot compare to the pure love, wonder and adoration these children have reserved for him. "Because you know," whispers Francois as he leans in their direction, subtly setting up for a story, "They do not ring all by themselves."

Much to the children's delight, Francois pulls out his cutest hand puppet: a small vessel of cloth with little wooden buttons stitched on as eyes and wooly cat-like ears peeking through brown threads of hair. It "asks" in a squeaky voice, "They don't?"

"Non, silly Picardy. Up there, high, high up in the dark bell tower lives the mysterious bell-ringer." He says, gesturing to the majestic cathedral. "Who is this creature?"

"Who?" repeats the puppet, Picardy.

"What is he?"

"What?" Picardy repeats again.

"How did he come to be there?"

"How?" Picardy repeats for a third time.

In mock annoyance, Francois strikes his puppet with a stick, commanding him to "hush!" "Big brother will tell you. It is a sad tale that many would deny, but a true one. It is a tale of a man and a **_monster_** …"

In Francois's caravan, a curtain rises to reveal a preset stage and the show begins…

* * *

**Dark was the night that started it all**  
**On the quay near Notre Dame~**

_In the dead of night, a small wooden boat silently cuts through the slushy waters of the Seine. Two flaxen-haired sisters huddle together in an attempt to keep themselves and a tightly wrapped bundle warm. The infant within the bundle, unaware of the serious situation the group is in and not understanding the need for silence, cries at the pain of cold air filling his new lungs. The younger sister scowls. Her hands tightly clutch her most prized possession, a bullock dirk that has been very helpful in the past. "Sister!" She hisses in a voice as icy as the river. "Keep that thing quiet or get rid of it!"_

_The older sister takes off her pale pink scarf, wraps it around the bundle and then brings said bundle closer to her generous bosom, hoping to comfort her recently orphaned baby brother; or at least muffle his cries. "Quiet Vanya, we are almost there. But until then, we must not make a sound, da?"_

**Three frightened gypsies slip silently**  
**Under the pier near Notre Dame~**

_Eventually, the boat reaches a shadowed riverbank that had been deemed safe enough to let out at. Though they are eager to settle in this promising city, the sisters are unable to set their feet onto the snow-covered ground before their pimple-faced smuggler holds out his hand, demanding his pay. "Four francs for safe passage into Paris, missus."_

**But a trap had been laid for the gypsies!**  
**And they gazed up in fear and alarm**  
**At a figure whose clutches were iron as much as the bells...  
The Bells of Notre Dame~**

_Unfortunately for the siblings, their metaphorical wagon had been hitched to a cocky ass. This smuggler has eluded the soldiers for some time, mostly by being lucky and discreet but it is funny how pride and one too many drinks at an alehouse can change that._

_Instead of parting ways in hopes of never seeing each other again, both the smuggled and the smuggler are greeted by an ambush of soldiers. Arrows fly through the air and plant themselves into the ground; a warning to not move. More soldiers rush onto the scene with sharp and sturdy swords at the ready._

_The younger sister, in an outburst of fury, surprises one of the soldiers with her dirk. She whips the blade out with practiced ease and plunges it into his dominant hand. Her effort however is in vain for there are more soldiers to replace the incompetent one; each equipped with restraints and the experience needed to deal with those who resist arrest._

_However the final nail in the coffin, the puzzle piece that puts an end to the gypsy resolve, is the presence of the newly appointed Minister of Justice; a man with such a stony-hearted sense of righteousness that words of his deeds and practices have spread throughout all of France (and even other parts of Europe), Judge Arthur Kirkland. Even at a distance, the older sister trembles under the haughty gaze of the intimidating official. Tears well in her eyes and the drops that spill over freeze on her cheeks. Her breath comes out shaky and uneven as a clumsy gasp stumbles from her lips._

**Judge Kirkland was a gentleman praised by decency and the Law.**  
**And he strived to purge Paris of the sin and debauchery he saw.**

_From the shadows emerges the mastermind behind this snare, Arthur Kirkland; his ivy green eyes already imagining the lawbreakers being devoured by the pious flames of godly justice. From his horse, he scowls down at the crying trespasser and calls, "You, woman…" A pale finger protrudes from the velvety black robes donning his figure. With a voice commanding respect, he demands to know what it is that the buxom sister is trying to hide._

_"H-honestly monsieur, it is only my baby b-brother. I wish not to expose him to the c-c-cold." The gypsy woman blubbers nervously, twisting this way and that, trying to keep her brother away from the soldiers' eyes._

_Arthur scoffs. "Pagan wretch! Do you take me for a fool? You are obviously lying," he says. Arthur turns to address the troops. "It is probably stolen goods. Take them from her."_

**~she ran~**

_Through the dark, slick, snow-covered streets she runs. The gypsy woman has only one goal in mind: sanctuary. She wants sanctuary for sneaking illegally into the promising city and for resisting arrest of course, but more importantly, she needs sanctuary for the innocent babe in her charge. Why should he suffer for being born at an inopportune time? To a family of scorned entertainers? Sanctuary: that is the empowering mantra that she repeats to herself. Fear for her brother wills her heart to pump despite the freezing cold and drives her to stay ahead of the horse-aided judge._

_Her cunning takes her to the narrowest of streets in hopes that M. Kirkland would lose her in the shadows of the buildings, but he continues to stay a fraction of a step behind._

_Though the young woman has no idea where to direct her feet, a force more merciful than luck seems to be on her side, for her erratic twists and turns lead her to a light within the shadows; an opening. Just beyond the dark and dabby alleyway, the figure of Notre Dame stands as a refuge. Encouraged further by Her appearance, the gypsy dashes faster down the alley and vaults over the iron railing- the sole barrier betwixt hope and despair- and skids through the slippery mound of snow and slush on the other side. Not wanting to waste anytime, she pushes herself onward to the rumored-to-be inviting doors of the cathedral, pounding with every ounce of strength left in her tired and stressed body, crying, "Sanctuary! Please give us sanctuary!" For a moment, she truly believes that everything will turn out all right; that she and her brother will be sheltered; that somehow they would find their sister and the three of them could live together in a wonderful place where they could be accepted…_

_But reality comes charging at her in the form of Arthur Kirkland and his midnight-hued horse. Overwhelmed with fear, she stands frozen in place for a few seconds and she pays for the instinctual reaction dearly. In one swift motion, Arthur jumps down from his steed and grabs the bundle, snatching it with the comparative strength and precision a predatorial bird would. And when the gypsy woman refuses to give in, he retaliates with a strong and abrupt shove._

_The gypsy reaches out desperately for M. Kirkland. If her pleas for sanctuary ever reached his eardrums, he gave no heed. Instead, he mentally congratulates himself while unwrapping the tightly bound scarf._

_Arthur has seen this trick before; the "baby" scam. Usually it is rags and rubbish stuffed into a blanket and shaped to resemble a baby in order to trick honest, hard-working, God-fearing folk into funding a vagrant's liquor stock. In other cases, it is a means of concealing ill-gotten gains. So as Arthur unfurls the thing, he expects change purses, valuables, or maybe even a concealed weapon; not a crying, squishy…thing._

_"A baby?...God's blood! A monster!" Arthur holds the unsightly baby as far from his person as possible. Never before has he ever seen such a creature! A series of thoughts sail through his mind, faster than the biting wind whipping at his hair and clothes. He absent-mindedly mutters to himself things like, "Is this a Nephilim reborn from Noah's day?" and, "Vile women! Fornicating with the devil…" Without commanding them to, his feet lead him to a well. Since the waters springing from it are on hallowed grounds, it is said that the water itself has a touch of holiness to it. Perhaps it is holy enough to send this demon back to hell where it belongs?_

_As Arthur holds the infant over the gaping mouth of the inky pit, another voice, one older and bolder than his own, breaks through to him._

**"STOP!" cried the archdeacon.**

_Archdeacon Julius rushes onto the snowy scene. "What is going on out here?" He says as he kneels beside the woman still lying on the stairs, not caring that his pristine white robes would be forever stained with the her blood. He looks up; surprised to see Minister Kirkland holding a squirming, crying baby over the cathedral's well. With a voice quaking in anxious anticipation, again he asks, "What is going on?"_

_Arthur coldly disregards the concerned Archdeacon and continues to hold the wriggling baby over the dark and stone-lined muzzle of death. "It is only a woman trying to evade arrest. I will be taking her to the Palais de Justice as soon as I deal with this…thing."_

_Archdeacon Julius checks the woman's wrists and neck for a pulse. His usually cheerful face falls as he comes to a sad conclusion. "I do not think you will be taking her anywhere," he says before signing a cross over himself and kissing his gold and ruby rosary. "She is dead."_

_"Dead?!"_

_Archdeacon Julius is an old man, but he is still lively and strong for his age. And even though many of his associates would call him foolish or scatter-brained, all would admit that when it concerns serious matters, he is not a person to take lightly. Arthur remembers this as the Archdeacon gives him a stare stronger than reinforced iron. "You are responsible for the blood that has spilt on the steps of Notre Dame!"_

_"I was doing my job. Surely you cannot blame me for that?"_

_"Now you would add this child's blood to your guilt, on the steps of Notre Dame?"_

_Again, Arthur coldly disregards the Archdeacon and his accusations. After all, in his heart and mind he did the right thing. With his profession, situations often turn ugly. One must be prepared to fight or defend themselves. Though it is no secret that the judge does not like gypsies, he does not intend to kill them himself. No! Their addled lives are in the hands of God and the Law._

_"You can lie to yourself and your infantry. You can claim to not have a qualm, but the blood spilled on these steps will call you every day in the sound of the Bells of Notre Dame."_

**With plaintive disposition, Judge Kirkland became docile**  
**As the Archdeacon explained a way to reconcile**

_"Care for it?" Arthur grimaces as he looks over the baby (if one could call it that). He knows that over time he could learn to not be so repulsed by the little bastard's appearance. He might even be able to grow fond of it, but the visitants of the Palais de Justice, both welcomed and…requested, would not make things easy. Also, as a government official, he has a reputation to maintain. It simply would not do if all of Paris were to discover the Minister of Justice's compunction, and although it would be much more convenient to lock the little beast in a dungeon for the rest of its days, such treatment is not the way one usually "cares" for things._

_Arthur looks at the limp body of the nameless woman; her blood being scrubbed away by a two Italian clerics- two more witnesses of what has transpired this evening. He sighs, resigned to his fate. "Very well, but I cannot house him. Let him live with you in the church."_

_"Live here? Where?"_

_"Anywhere, as long as he is kept from the cruel eyes of people…The bell tower perhaps?"_

_Once again, a serious expression overtakes Archdeacon Julius' face. "Arthur…" he growls out._

_Arthur flinches at the use of his given name. It has been a while since anyone has used it with such familiarity._

_"You cannot shirk this responsibility." Archdeacon Julius stands up with the gypsy corpse in his arms. Such a shame; she was a beautiful woman, and probably seeking sanctuary. It is only fair to give her a proper burial. He looks to the baby; no longer dangling over the frigid waters of the well. "If he is to stay here-"_

_"I will take care of him!" Arthur says as he covers the baby. He brings the infant closer to his robes in an effort to keep it warm. "I shall even educate him and mold his thinking properly. He will prove to be a useful servant to myself and God."_

* * *

Francois closes the curtain and directs the town children's attention to a small set. He holds up a hand puppet dressed in black with bushy brows and little green beads for eyes. "And so, Judge Kirkland adopted the little boy and cruelly gave him a fool's name: Ivan. _Now here is a riddle to guess if you can, sing the bells of Notre Dame. Who is the monster and who is the man? Sing the bells, bells, bells, bells...bells, bells, bells, bells...Bells of Notre Dame._ " His audience claps and cheers as a silhouetted puppet pulls on a string, ringing a little bell. Now that the story in over, the little ones skip off merrily or are collected by their generous parents.

Coins are handed to him and Francois counts them with glee. After all of the little metallic pieces are transferred into his change purse, he feels a little tug on his arm and hears an angelic voice call, "Monsieur Francois?" He looks down and there standing on her tip toes to reach into his caravan is a little girl of surprisingly short blonde hair and green eyes. To be honest, if it were not for the blue ribbon in her hair and the finely made dress, he would have mistaken her for a boy. "Is that really what happened?" she asks ever so sweetly.

Francois opens his mouth-

"Of course not!"

-but he is not given the chance to answer. Standing less than a stone's throw away is the très mignon albeit very temperamental Cdr. Basch Zwingli. "It is only a story Lili. You should not think so much about it." He gives the puppeteer a couple of sols along with a pointed, mostly neutral expression spiced with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "That was a very interesting story, monsieur," he says curtly. "But it is still just a story."

Francois smiles. "Yes, it was interesting n'est pas? Certainly more amusing than one of a babe abandoned only to be discovered and laughed at by a pair of gossiping nuns." Unable to help himself, Francois winks at the high ranking soldier, making sure to make a subtle yet seductive gesture. He laughs as the now red-faced guard storms off with little Lili in tow. Though he would not mind being in the company of Cdr. Basch (or any knight with a nice arse), it simply would not do for business; especially if he plans on getting away with his somewhat slanderous story.

Yes the origin and appearance of the mysterious bell ringer are subjects of both wonder and ridicule. There are many stories circulating about. Some even claim it is a demon seeking repentance from God! Francois knows that most of the rumors are bullshit, but he cannot say in good conscience that his version is the complete truth either.

The only person who could honestly say what happened on that night rests beneath the grounds of Notre Dame, and he will not be talking for a long time

Neither will the unknown occupant of a nearby grave plot; where a beautiful, flaxen-haired woman is said to lie…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So technically the name Ivan means "glorious gift/God's gift" and "archer". I was making reference to the song, The Bells of Notre Dame and Ivan the Fool, a character in a series of Russian fairytales, chastised for being simple-minded or kind but in the end it's those qualities that cause him to gain riches and stuff.
> 
> Medieval French Monetary System  
> (Or at least what I understand of it)  
> 1 French franc = 1 livre  
> 1 franc/livre = 20 sols (called sous after 1715)  
> 1 sol = 12 deniers  
> If I'm wrong, feel free to tell me.
> 
> This fic is not originally mine. The Monster of Notre Dame is an unfinished fic written by Kats With Shamrocks. I read it, fell in love with it, and with her permission I have adopted it. It's not exactly like her fic. I am making it my own but I am also doing my best to stay as true to her vision as I can. If you want to read her version as well as this one, go to her profile page or search it on FFN (she's leaving it up).
> 
> As I stated in the description, I'm bringing this over from FFN however I'm not going to do a 1 for 1 copy. There will be a few barely noticeable changes (like adding a word here, taking a word away there, changing the format a bit maybe, nothing really worth talking about) but for the most part everything will be the same from my FFN fic.
> 
> Thank you for reading and please review.


	2. Out There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter in which we meet Ivan, the mysterious bell-ringer, and get a glimpse into his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally written and posted on FFN in 2013. When I first wrote this chapter, I felt as if I wasn't doing the song Out There the justice it deserves. So there probably will be changes from what's posted on FFN.

_**Out There...** _

Echoes of the morning bells ring throughout the dark and spacious bell tower. Its sole occupant wipes the sweat from his brow and welcomes the cool mid-winter breeze. It is another morning in Notre Dame.

The bell-ringer, Ivan, releases the ropes of the bells and hobbles to the balcony, startling a flock of pigeons in the process. It is just another part of his morning routine; scaring the shit out of some hapless creatures. It is annoying that they flee from him at every opportunity despite having seen him countless times, but he does not hold it against them for he too would fly far away if he could. And what better day to fly than on the Festival of Fools!

For a moment Ivan allows himself to daydream about the festival. As a bird, he could dive into the crowds below and submerse himself into that colorful world of merriment. He could watch jugglers, enjoy the music, and even flutter with the dancers if he wanted! And when the fun was over, he would join the other birds and they would fly away together; wherever their little bird hearts desire…

But it is not meant to be. Ivan is not a bird. He is a monster; and like other monsters, he must be kept away from the normal people…

Ivan sighs. Recalling the somewhat melancholic reality that is his life, Ivan hobbles back inside, away from the sunshine not meant for him, and makes his way back to his part of the bell tower; where he sleeps, eats and feels the most "at home". It is also where he keeps his "friends". In reality they are statues incapable of any thought action or emotion, but when Ivan is feeling particularly morose or in need of company, he allows himself to find companionship in the chiseled characters. Even when he doesn't feel like talking to them, he takes delight in their inhuman appearance for they make him feel less lonely. As Ivan sits at his table, which also doubles as the ground for his scale model of Notre Dame and Paris, listlessly toying with his little wooden figurines, he tries his best to ignore the gaze of the gargoyles but it is impossible to ignore their stony stare. _"Is something wrong, Ivan?"_ Ivan shifts to the kind-faced gargoyle with angel wings; the one he christened, Toris. He is greeted with warm eyes and a soft smile. Ivan found Toris ten years ago (at the age of thirteen) abandoned with cracks, scratches, and an invasion of moss. _"Today is Epiphany, right? Isn't there a show waiting for you outside?"_

_"What? Epiphany? That means there is a festival today!"_ Ivan turns to the most oddest looking gargoyle in his collection. It has horns, bat-like wings, a devilish smirk, and even a pronged tail, but its most fearsome feature is its eyes: two crimson colored gems that twinkle in even the faintest of light. Unfortunately, many years ago, when its paint had worn off- as with the other gargoyles- white marble had been revealed to be underneath rather than grey stone. Because of its inability to "fit in" with the other gargoyles, it had been removed from its place on the cathedral and locked away in the bell tower like a beast. Ivan had named this one Gilbert. _"There are only three reasons for the awesome me to stand in that awful sun: fights, floggings, and the feast of fools. I command you to watch it with us!"_

With a shake of his head, Ivan sighs. "Not this year."

Gilbert scratches his horns and frowns. _"Are you sick or something?"_ He folds his arms and flicks his tail in annoyance, but Ivan can not tell why exactly he is annoyed. Could it be from being denied view of the festival? Or is it from lack of understanding why they will not watch the festival? If Ivan had been completely honest with himself, he would have admitted to feeling a little annoyed as well.

"Nyet. I do not feel like watching the festival, that is all."

Toris gasps and Ivan could almost feel smooth stone rubbing circles into his back. _"But watching the Festival of Fools has always been the highlight of the year for you."_

_"Well yeah but, like, what good is watching a party if you, like, never get to hear it or join in or anything?"_ The third statue in Ivan's company is a beautifully sculpted cherub that Ivan has named Feliks. It had been positioned on the far side of the cathedral's garden until one spring when the wine loving sons of le Duché d'Anjou visited the city. On the eve of their departure, the cherub had been found wingless and covered in pink paint. Instead of being cleaned up and set back in place, it had been removed and replaced.

_"Kesesesese! Is that all?! If you feel so left out, why don't you just get off your ass and go down there instead?"_

"You think I have not thought of that?" On this date, the days leading up to it, and usually for a few days after, Ivan's thoughts are of nothing but the various things he would have done if he could bear to step out of the bell tower. He would play games, sample wines and cheeses of various regions, enjoy the folk music and maybe even dance a little! But… "I would like to go, but I would never fit in down there." The closest Ivan ever gets to the festival is taking his crude wood-carven counterpart out of his miniature bell tower and placing it on the table top amongst the other wood-whittled people.

Ivan glances up at the shards of stained glasses he has dangling over his tabletop. Throughout the day, they create a spectacular show of color and spread light to the darker parts of his room. Unfortunately, as the glass pieces fill his room with beauty, they also mock him by reflecting his **_hideous_** appearance; distorting his already deformed features in various angles to the point that Ivan can no longer tell which reflection is "true" and which ones are the contorted exaggerations.

Ivan's body is covered with dreadful marks that look like burns; a travelling friar, wandering where he should not, once walked in on him dressing, saw his bare back and had called them whip-lashings of the devil! There are also many scars on his skin from stretching and tearing over the years as he grew to his abnormal size. One of his legs is at an odd angle- He had fallen from a great height once upon a time and the bone hadn't healed properly; causing him to gimp around. And his face! It is his worst feature for it is always uncovered! Even the unusual ashen wires he calls hair cannot shield such a visage! And if his monstrous height, strength, and scars do not scare you, then his demonic, violet eyes, larger than average nose, sharp-toothed smile, eerie voice, and unintentionally intimidating aura are sure to make you scream/run/faint/soil yourself in fear.

An uncomfortable silence, one that matches the bell tower, settles within Ivan's mind as he reflects upon his reflection. He swings at the glasses, feeling a little less despondent at that beautiful twinkling sound, and grabs his long pink scarf that is sitting nearby. The soft yet worn and slightly tattered cloth has been with him for as long as he could remember and he always feels safer and happier when it is curled around his neck. Ivan loves this scarf and wears it everyday no matter the weather or season. In fact, he is so accustomed to this accessory, he feels as if it is a part of him and has even developed a habit of twiddling with the tassels when he is nervous. Unfortunately, there is one side-effect to donning the comforting cloth: _someone_ becomes dispirited whenever he sees Ivan fidgeting with it.

That same someone is the also the main reason Ivan squanders any ambitions to leave the bell tower.

"How could I forget?" Ivan asks no one. He picks up his best looking figurine: a man covered from the neck down in black and carrying a little, black, cross-covered book in his hands. It is also the only figurine with eyes a different color than black; two bright green drops of paint with a flicker of the intensity its human counterpart has. "Master would never permit me to leave, especially for the Feast of Fools. To ask would be a pointless."

_"Dummkopf! Who says you gotta ask?"_

_"It is only one afternoon."_ Toris adds. _"You could sneak out and sneak back in. Arthur would never know."_

_"Yeah and like what is the worst that could happen? I mean, like, even if he finds out, Arthur is like totally not that scary. Okay! So his eyebrows are like über huge and his cooking is gag-me-with-a-spoon gross, but he is not like mean or totally vicious or anything."_

Ivan is silent as the idea of actually acting upon his fantasies sets in. It would be nice to be like one of the busy bodies he has seen so many times from the balconies. He stares at his large, marred hands. The scars, calluses and rope burns loudly testify to his ugliness. "I could wear a disguise, da?" He smiles at the statues as he stands up and begins rummaging around for means to conceal himself. "Some gloves...maybe something with a hood...There must be something I could use."

"Good morning, Ivan."

Startled by the sound of a new voice (and not just any voice; it is the voice of his master!), Ivan stops his searching. He stumbles out from his makeshift bedroom and into the presence of his caretaker. Somehow he manages to rush out a, "Good morning, Master" without tripping over his words, but he cannot keep his fingers still. Instead, the shaky digits tangle around and tug the tassels of his scarf.

Striding through the shadows of the belfry is a man looking almost identical to the black-garbed figurine on the tabletop (save for the size, slightly graying hair, and the basket). This is Ivan's master, Judge Arthur Kirkland. Everyday the good Judge visits to share a meal, provide conversation, and make sure that his charge is healthy and living in accordance to the good book's teachings. "Lad, whomever were you talking to?" he asks with a raise of one massive brow.

Ivan bows his head out of respect, humility, and shame. "...M-my friends." Though it rarely happens, Ivan has always hated being caught off guard in his fabricated, not-so-solitary world.

"I see..." Arthur looks around at the lifeless creatures with contempt. "Tell me, Ivan, what are your friends made of?"

"S-stone...They are made of stone." Ivan keeps his gaze to the floor. His cheeks and ears burn in embarrassment.

Arthur stops before Ivan while on his way to the table. He tenderly touches Ivan's cheek; a silent command to look him in the eyes. Slowly, as if speaking to a someone soft in the head, he asks, "Can stone talk?"

"No Master. It cannot."

He chuckles briefly. "Such a smart lad!" This is not the first time Arthur has caught his ward talking to those stone carvings. Each time he would wonder about the unsightly chap's sanity. "I thought we could have an early lunch today, perhaps we should review your alphabet while we are at it?" It is not a question and it is not exactly a request either, but as Arthur divides the vittles between the two of them he expects the proper confirmation.

Ivan joins Judge Kirkland at the table, making sure not to grimace at the burnt and tasteless food before him. After all, it is nice of the busy judge to prepare a meal specifically for him; and even though it will be gross, it is the thought that counts. "I would like that very much, Master."

"Very well, **A**?"

"Abomination..." Ivan speaks softly. It is a nervous habit, but he knows that Arthur would prefer his quietness over fiddling with his scarf. _'I am an abomination.'_

" **B**?" Kirkland recites while pouring wine.

"Blasphemy..." _'I am a blasphemy against God.'_

" **C**?"

"C-c-contrition..." _'I am forever in contrition. My very existence is a sin.'_ In his self-destructive thoughts, Ivan does not notice Arthur's grip on the bottle tense.

With a slightly deeper scowl, Arthur reaches for his wine-cup. A drink should calm him. " **D**?"

"Demon!" _'I am a demon...'_

Before the wine reaches his lips, Arthur's grip tightens on the cup. He takes a deep breath and decides to wait for the fermented drink to still. " **E**?"

"Eternal damnation!" _'...doomed for eternal damnation.'_ Ivan is not entirely sure of how he feels about his fate, but he has accepted it. If he suffers in the afterlife, at least he will not be suffering alone.

"Good. **F**?" Kirkland asks, finally able to take a sip of his wine.

He was not thinking, and perhaps he should have been; for when "Festival," breaks forth from Ivan's lips, a spray of wine spews from Arthur's.

"What?" Kirkland asks the sheltered savage.

Ivan knows this voice as the "calm before the storm." It is the steady, smooth, and icy tone his master uses while condemning a miscreant or before scolding some fool stupid enough to cross him. Ivan himself has been on the receiving end of the storm before. There is nothing he is more afraid of: his pupils dilate, his body trembles, his head bows deeper than before, and as his breathing quickens, he nervously twiddles with his scarf again; earning a sharper scowl from the irked minister. Ivan tries placating Judge Kirkland by quickly muttering, "Forgiveness!" but it's too late for that. Arthur backhands him; the large, jewel-encrusted rings graze across his cheek.

Kirkland stands over the motionless monster. "You were thinking about going to that wicked festival were you not?!"

Ivan knows not to lie, definitely not in the house of God...and _especially_ not in the presence of his master. "I-I wanted to go this year, M-master. J-just like you do, Master."

" _I_ am a public official- I must go! But that does not mean that I enjoy it!" Judge Kirkland walks through the tower, traveling down a series of steps here and there on his way to some fresh air. Like a loyal, obedient dog, Ivan follows at his heels. "Thieves, drunkards, and all other sorts of sinners mixing together in an orgy of immorality! Whatever decent folk there are unwittingly corrupting themselves with the company and _'entertainment'_ of those devil-worshiping gypsies." By the time the duo have made it outside, Judge Kirkland has relaxed a considerable amount. However he is still quite annoyed and the glare he gives says that he is perfectly fine with letting Ivan know.

Ivan flinches as those venomous eyes focus upon him. "I am sorry, Master. I did not mean to upset you."

Arthur turns to the people working below; an intense scowl is still on his face. "I find it very odd that you want to be amidst them, Ivan..."

Ivan flinches again.

If Kirkland notices, he says nothing about it. "...Especially after what your heartless family did to you. You know," Arthur turns back to the demonic young man. His lips twitch into a smirk. "Anyone else would have drowned you! And this ungrateful attitude of yours is the thanks I get for providing you shelter and taking care of you?"

Ivan has heard these words before, and each time he feels immense sorrow and guilt. Perhaps he should have been drowned...

Arthur sighs. "It is not your fault that you forget these things. This bell tower is a refuge against the cruelty and wickedness of mankind, but I know all to well of the world outside of these walls... _The world is cruel. The world is wicked. It's I alone whom you can trust in this whole city. I am your only friend_." Arthur turns back to Ivan and touches the recently welted cheek. His lips twitch to form a smug smile as Ivan winces. " _I who have raised you, dressed you, fed you, and taught you. And it is I who can look at you unafraid_." He says while gently running his finger's through Ivan's hair. He leads Ivan back inside saying, _"How can I protect you, boy, unless you always stay in here?...Away in here?"_

"Follow me, Ivan, and listen; remember what I have taught you," Arthur says when they are inside once again. His voice thunders against the stone, bells, and beams. " _You are deformed...and you are ugly...and these are crimes for which the world shows little pity. You do not comprehend!_ "

Ivan limps after his master. He nods along to the minister's words, desensitized to their meaning. He is ugly, it is nothing new. Even the figurine he carved of himself is unsightly in comparison to the others.

_"Out there you will be mocked as a monster..."_

_'I am a monster...'_

_"Outside you would suffer for no reason..."_

_'Only a monster...'_

_"Why invite their calumny and consternation!?! Stay in here...away in here..."_ Arthur takes a few deep breaths; knowing that if he does not calm himself, he will come off looking more like an unlearned brute rather than an educated gentleman. "Here you will be much happier, Ivan. You have no idea how fortunate you are." He continues, "Thank God I am here for you; to teach you these things; to explain to you the hatred and brutality of the ignorant masses." Arthur sees the wooden figurine in Ivan's likeness standing in the middle of little Paris. He picks it up; trapping the little thing in a cage of flesh and bone. "You do not know how well you have it here, Ivan," he says softly. "I was safe in the embrace of Notre Dame. In my youth, when I was a priest, this cathedral was my refuge, my sanctuary, as it is now yours." As Arthur loses himself in the memories of his days of priesthood, he unconsciously squeezes little wooden Ivan. "But Paris was sick- and still is sick! She needed me! The filth and trash of their kind polluting every house and street...so duty called me...God called me..."

Ivan says nothing as Arthur warns of the degraded outside world. Each almost incoherent grumble clashes with the hopes that Ivan has been hiding for the entire twenty-three years he has spent in this place. Usually Ivan's loyalty to his master and caretaker squashes such hope and curiosity; this time however, his thoughts fight against Arthur's teachings.

"Outside is anguish..."

_"Outside is, like, pretty and stuff..."_

"Outside is nothing but rubbish..."

_"Outside there are people. You could make friends...real friends..."_

"Outside there is immorality, depravity, and sin..."

_"Outside could be awesome! Find out for yourself..."_

"In here you are safe from the pain and the refuse of the world; and should you go out there, you will only meet your ruin..."

_"Try it! See the world for yourself! If the awesome me was made by those people, it cannot be that bad..."_

_"And even if it is, that is something you must discover on your own. Arthur will not find out..."_

_"Like, follow your instinct for freedom. See if it, like, pays off..."_

"So please for your sake," Arthur takes Ivan's carving that is still in his hand and places it on the Notre Dame carving. " _Do as I say...obey...and stay in here._ "

_"I'll stay in here."_

Racked with guilt and confusion, and feeling even more worthless and indecisive than usual, Ivan cannot bring himself to even look at his master. He just knew that those green eyes were full of disappointment; and if they fell upon him, he would probably turn into a sniveling, groveling mess. "You are kind to me, Master. I am sorry."

"You are forgiven." Arthur walks back to the stairwell. His inky black garments, slow strides and soft steps inadvertently make him look like a shadowy spirit as he slinks into the darkness. "Remember Ivan," he says, looking back. "This is your sanctuary." He sends one last smirk to his monstrous charge before slamming the door shut...

Leaving Ivan alone once more...

"Da, my sanctuary..." Ivan ponders over the meaning of such words. He truly is safe in Notre Dame's ever un-yielding hold, but what is he safe from? From scorn and ridicule? From suffering? From moral confusion and corruption? All of which he has no real proof of and has never really seen.

Ivan looks up at the bells. How majestic and ancient they look! Ivan looks to his gargoyle friends. This is the only world Ivan has ever known: the darkness, the silence, the cold, and the terrible loneliness. His only means of comfort being his imagination and the splendor of the bells...but Ivan wants so much more! These things are meant to be alone and they only provide sound and speech when he wishes them to. Is it wrong to want real companionship? Real experience? And real light, life, sound, and warmth? Real things provided by someone or something other than his fantasies? Is that really so wrong?  
Ivan moves from his seat and climbs up a series of beams to look outside.

_Safe behind these windows and these parapets of stone,  
Gazing at the people down below me..._

Though there is only one person he knows (a certain minister who can now be seen walking through the square), there are many bodies that he recognizes. For as long as he could remember he has watched them come, go, and even grow. He has seen them praised and punished; marry and mourn; he has seen them experience a spectrum of emotions and has known the causes of them all. All while he himself is safely sealed away. Whether they know it or not, their lives have become a part of his.

_All my life, I watch them as I hide up here alone-  
Hungry for the histories they show me..._

_All my life, I've memorized their faces...  
Knowing them as they would never know me.  
All my life, I've wondered how it feels to pass a day-  
Not above them...  
But part of them...  
_

Ivan jumps down to his floor. He hobbles to his table, picking up figurines that had fallen during the luncheon along the way. He places them where they belong on the tabletop: at the butcher shop, at the boulangerie, at the square, etc.

_All my life, I've memorized their faces..._   
_Knowing them as they would never know me._   
_All my life, I've wondered how it feels to pass a day-_   
_Not above them..._   
_But part of them..._

After a moment of thought, he takes his figurine and places it at the center of the square. Is it just him, or does the little thing look a little happier?

_And Out There  
Living in the sun!_

Ivan breaks out into the sunshine; feeling freer and happier than ever before.

_Give me one day  
Out There  
All I ask is one!  
To hold forever..._

_Out There  
Where they all live unaware-  
What I'd give...  
What I'd dare...  
Just to live one day Out There!  
_

It would be nice to be normal-looking if only for one day; to be amongst those blissfully ignorant people. It is a day that he would treasure forever; a day that he would give anything for; do anything for! Just to live out there for once, instead of merely existing in the dark!

Ivan climbs along the side of Notre Dame. Not once does he fear falling from her! As he makes his way to her magnificent eye, Ivan takes in all that she sees knowing that Notre Dame could never lie to him about the world and people beyond his normality.

_Out There among the millers, and the wavers, and their wives-  
Through the roofs and gables I can see them!  
Ev'ryday they shout and scold and go about their lives-  
Heedless of the gift it is to be them!_

Do those people truly understand how fortunate they are? Do they cherish their time together? Or even their time alone? Freely walking about- laughing, fighting, and crying with one another only to continue on as if their scuffles and troubles have never happened? Never constantly being reminded of who or what they are? Able to be "ordinary"?

But Ivan knows.

Ivan understands.

_If I was in their skin,  
I'd treasure ev'ry instant_

There is a longing- a great yearning within his heart for just a scrap of that light. To be a part of something larger than himself and truly belong! And Ivan feels that desire burning within him more and more. Its' radiance carries him down a flying buttress and into the glory of the sun.

_Out There  
Strolling by the Seine  
Taste a morning Out There  
Like ordinary men  
Who freely walk about there_

_"Just one day..."_ Ivan pleads. He retreats back to the shadows of his sanctuary, more determined than ever take control of his life. _"Just one day and then I swear I'll be content with my share."_ He adjusts his scarf and again rummages around for a disguise. _"Won't resent! Won't despair! Old and bent- I won't care!"_ With each word, Ivan feels his resolve strengthen a little more. _"I'll have spent...one day..."_

_Out There!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow...ok...so I ended up changing more than I expected. When I first wrote this chapter, I was planning to use the lyrics more as dialogue but once you start reading, it's impossible to not sing along. Or at least, that's how I feel. So I incorporated the lyrics more and in case anyone is confused, I mainly used the Disney version of Out There but also took inspiration from the Der Glockner version. So this upload is different from the FFN version. Which I am still leaving up on that website and will still be updating over there as well as here.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading and for taking the time to leave a review and I will see you all shortly in the next chapter!


	3. Gypsies: Beggars, Artists, & Scapegoats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet the remainder of the main cast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! In addition to the g-slur being used, this chapter contains a hate word. I do not condone the use of hateful speech and the use of this word does not reflect my opinions.
> 
> This chapter was originally written and posted in 2013. Unlike the previous chapter, I don't think I really had any problems with this chapter the first time I posted it so I don't think it will be too different from its' FFN counterpart.

_**Gypsies: Beggars, Artists, & Scapegoats...** _

It is one of the dirtier streets of the Île de la Cité, where the buildings and houses are crammed together and the cobblestones are rough and broken. Many horses are around. Many are kept here and the stench of urine and manure has been forever soaked into the structures. Even the people cannot rid themselves of the stink!

This is where three gypsies and a small cub make their stage.

The smallest of the trio, a little boy wearing no hosiery, dressed in an over-sized, greyish-blue, hand-me-down tunic with an old rope tied around his waist as a make-shift belt sits atop a brick wall. He turns this way and that as his ocean blue eyes scan over various townsfolk; keeping a look out for any guards. Below him the jovial sounds of an old end-blown flute, four padded paws, and a tambourine flows ahead into the putrid street. The tallest (and oldest) of the trio plays his less than perfect hardwood instrument while sitting on some stray boxes, pressing himself against the brick wall as much as he possibly can. Most of his body is concealed by a patched wool coat that unintentionally makes him blend into the shadows of the city. As his fingers slide over the holes, an exotic bear cub frolics about performing tricks in time to the jingle of a tambourine. But the bear is not the main attraction. Oh no! He draws people to the area; catching their attention with his spins, backflips, and somersaults. Men, women, and children are impressed by the training of the adorably odd bear but they stay (and pay) to see the tambourine player.

White peasant blouse falling a little off the shoulders...

Navy blue skirt daring to allow ankle nubs and a bit of the shins into the light of day...

Gaunt waist adorned by a pink cincher with golden-yellow trim...

A hip scarf, bright and blue, embellished with little golden baubles swish around curvy hips and a pert arse...

Golden jewelry flash against sun-kissed skin...

A garland of apple blossoms bounces along with honey blond locks...

The star of the show is a dancing gypsy boy. His exotic and (not so intentionally) erotic moves mesmerize both men and women. His hypnotic hips amaze the crowd, persuading them to donate money to their collection plate: a slightly chewed purple flat cap with a button-charm of a red maple leaf stitched to it and placed on the ground. Only a few more to go and they would have enough for both lunch and dinner! They might even be able to treat their quadrupedal friend to a big fish; instead of just giving him scraps.

"Hey beautiful!" Unfortunately in such line of work, one occasionally comes across patrons who believe that enough money could earn them more than a show. "Why don't you come with me and actually earn some money?" A rough hand belonging to that rough voice reaches out and grabs the gypsy boy by his exposed arm and pulls him close.

The flutist cuts his eyes to the arrogant dick. He expresses his protective feelings of disapproval by violently playing his instrument; the sharp notes shear their way across eardrums, forcing everyone to cover their ears.

Using the opportunity, the gypsy boy breaks away from the man and falls back to the safety of his brother. A glare fixes upon his usually happy face.

The patron sneers. "Rump-fed fag whore!'' He snorts. ''You're probably riddled with pox!" At those words, the crowd recedes; murmuring with one another about lewd gypsies spreading disease.

The youngest comes down from his perch and the brothers share a round of sad smiles and a hug before continuing with their performance. Another crowd will come; they always do...

Not too far from the gypsies, somewhere along the same malodorous street, a man shrouded in a dark cloak carefully weaves through traffic, pulling along a cream-coloured horse. He looks this way at that; his ice blue eyes darting from his map to his surroundings and grumbles as he runs his fingers through his slicked back, shining blond hair. After a few "hmm"s and "mmm"s he sighs in defeat, crumples the useless paper up, and tosses it away. "Pardon me, messieurs..." He waves to a couple of passing guards in hopes of getting their attention. "Could you point me in the direction of the Palais de Justice?"

Maybe it is because he is not dressed flashily? Maybe it is because he seems rather lax in comparison to his usual attitude of seriousness? Maybe it is because of some other third thing? But whatever the reason, the man is ignored by both guards; left in their dust with a twitching brow and a throbbing vein threatening to burst.

He takes a deep breath and marches along.

As he progresses up the road, music wafts onto his cochlea. The happy tune is not enough to completely free him of the morning's stresses, but it does induce a small smile and he is no longer feeling the need to wring someone's neck.

"Stay away, Mary!" A woman tugs her daughter's hand as she crosses the man's path. She looks back at where they were, her face contorted in disgust. "Those gypsies! They'll rob us blind!"

He walks in the direction the woman has come from- the same direction of the music, stopping at the sight of a creamy-white bear cub jumping and twirling about. His eyes already cast downward on the odd bear, he notices a hat on the ground with some coins inside. Feeling particularly generous and grateful for the music, the man slips one hand inside his pocket and pulls out three sols. He tosses them into the hat, allowing them to join their metallic platoon. He looks up to see gypsies; no doubt the same gypsies that the now gone woman complained about. What he sees leaves him stricken with an acute case of stupidity! He is helplessly frozen on the spot at the sight of the dancing gypsy boy stepping gracefully in time to the simple song. The boy faces him, and he is greeted by a dazzling, perfect smile. The man blushes, his jaw drops, and instinctually, unintentionally, he stands at attention. He is so transfixed; who knows how long he would have stood there? His gaze never leaving the dancing gypsy, he does not notice the little boy sitting atop the wall, and jumps a little when the youngin emits a sudden, high-pitched whistle.

_**(!)** _

Panic erupts on the trio's faces. Even the bear looks a little anxious! The smallest scurries down the opposite side of the wall. The tallest leaps from his seat and runs down the intersecting road, towards a prediscussed rendezvous. The remaining gypsy, the tambourine boy, starts to run but stops at the distressed call from the bear. Scattered along the cobblestones are the valuable coins that he and his brothers worked so hard to collect. He dashes back to gather as much as he can; perfectly comfortable with sacrificing some in order to make a quick escape. Unfortunately, he is not quick enough.

"On your feet, gypsy."

Still adhered to his spot, the cloaked man watches as two guards, the same two guards who were too busy being unconcerned of his circumstance, roughly drag the performers off the ground. The wild-haired Danish guard hoists the bear by the scruff of its neck while the spiky-haired, stern looking, Dutch guard jerks the boy into a standing position; the force actually lifts the smaller male in the air for a few fractions of a second. With one hand he holds the dancer's wrists in a crushing grip, allowing the other hand to seize the coin containing hat. "Where did you get this money?"

"For your information, I earned it!" The gypsy wriggles and pulls to get away, but a barely fed boy is no match for a trained guard. Realizing that his struggling is pointless, he tries explaining, "My brothers and I have been out here since dawn trying to earn enough to eat today!" The comments merit him a squeeze of his already sore wrists.

"Ha! Everyone knows that gypsies don't earn money." The Danish guard says, unable to keep a controlled grip on the bear. "They steal it!"

"You would know a lot about stealing, wouldn't you?" The gypsy says, still trying to remove himself from the guard's grasp.

"Placing you in the stocks for a day ought to teach you a lesson."

_**"Yeow!"** _

Three pairs of eyes look to the Danish guard hollering and flailing his arm. At the end of his appendage is the very cub he has been trying to apprehend; its teeth sinking into his flesh. The comical and unexpected spectacle distracts the Dutch guard, causing his grip to loosen a little. It is enough for the gypsy though. With a well placed kick, the gypsy boy is free and able to snatch the hat and run.

Finally able to move, the cloaked man steps into the guards path, bringing his horse with him; effectively preventing the duo from pursuing the boy.

The guards however, did not appreciate that. In fact, the Dane pulls out a large axe seemingly from nowhere and directs it at the man saying, "Watch it peasant!"

The man reaches into his hilt and pulls out a shining sword. The action reveals the red, satin underside of his cloak and the golden armor of a respectable knight. He smirks at the looks of shock and awe. "What was that, lieutenant?"

"Ah! C-Captain!" The guard laughs nervously and deftly tries to hide the large axe behind his back. "Sorry about that! I did not recognize you. Ha ha!"  
The Captain puts his sword away and helps the second guard off the ground. In his most authoritative voice, he "politely" inquires of a route to the Palais de Justice.

* * *

The Palais de Justice, a grand structure connoting both a sense of regality and a sense of dread. It is not a very inviting place however, as is the case with most judicial centers. So it is not suprising to find the palace ground's completely devoid of life.

It is also not surprising to hear agonized screams should one enter the Palais of Justice; for this is where criminals and suspects are tortured, tried, and sentenced. So when the Captain hears shrieks following the snaps of a whip, he does not bother to acknowledge it. To him, it is the sound of Lady Justice righting her scales.

_SNAP! CRACK!_   
_SNAP! CRACK!_

"Stop! Wait between lashes, otherwise the old sting will dull the new."

The Captain coughs; signaling his arrival to his new employer, Judge Arthur Kirkland.

The Judge turns to the sound of the intrusion. "Captain Ludwig, we meet at last. I am sorry for transferring you upon such short notice. I hope that the ordeal was not to jarring for you."

"I am here as you requested." Ludwig has never been one for small talk. His militaristic lifestyle never gave him time for such luxuries.

"Your service record is quite impressive. I expect nothing but the best from someone with your reputation, Ludwig."

"And you shall have it, Sir. I make it a habit to strive for efficiency and perfection." Ludwig stands at attention and, out of habit, gives a salute.

Arthur smiles. "At ease, Captain. Although I do admire your discipline; most of my men seem to have forgotten that we are in a war." Arthur leads the Captain out of the interrogation halls and onto the second story open corridor.

"War, Sir?"

"Of sorts, yes." Arthur stops. He looks over the railing and sneers at the people below. "Gypsies...Paris is at her darkest hour thanks to their breed. Their heathen ways entice the people to indulge in their basest instincts."

Ludwig gazes below, seeing the same dancer boy running through the streets. He shakes his head to prevent any distracting thoughts. "I am sorry but I do not understand what that has to do with me."

Arthur directs his attention to a few insects crawling on the cold stone. Insects are vermin. Vermin steal and spread diseases. It is his duty to be the exterminator; to keep himself and others clean and free from plagues. He glares at the repugnant creatures. "For the past twenty-three or four years, I have been taking care of the gypsy problem one...by...one." He squishes the bugs beneath his fingers; rubbing their guts into the slab. "And yet despite any advancements or progress I make, they have flourished." Arthur lifts up the slab to reveal an army of insects. "After conducting a thorough investigation, I have learnt that within the walls of this very city, there is a...nest, if you will." He chuckles. "They call it the Court of Miracles."

Ludwig dares a quick glance to the gypsy boy below, but to his relief and disappointment, the boy is gone. "And what do you propose we do about it?"

Arthur smirks before slamming the slab back into place. The sound of scores of exoskeletons breaking is hard to miss.

Ludwig nods. "I understand, Sir."

"Good. You know, my last Captain of the Guard was a bit of a disappointment to me," Arthur looks back to the door they had come out of. After a small moment of silence, he turns back to Ludwig with a confident smile. "But I think we will get along just fine."

"Minister Kirkland," Cdr. Basch approaches and nods respectfully to his boss and superior officer. "We should leave now before the streets become congested."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Bollocks!...Oh well, duty calls." He whispers to himself. "Have you ever attended a peasant festival, Captain?"

The ever serious Captain Ludwig answers. "Not since I was a child; and even then I never payed much attention."

"Then this should be an educational experience for you." Arthur gestures to the Captain and the two descend through the palace. "There is no need to rush. There really is not anything worth seeing or doing there."

* * *

_Step, step, step, step, step- turn..._   
_Step, step, step, step, step- turn..._

Nervous fingers run through hair...

_Step, step, step, step, step- turn..._   
_Step, step, step, step, step- turn..._

Teeth chew on lips. The skin is about to break...

_Step, step, step, step, step- turn..._   
_Step, step, step, step, step- turn..._

"Ah! Where is he?!" A beautiful morning is coming to an end; leading into a beautiful afternoon. At the square in front of Notre Dame people have been setting up tents and attractions while enjoying as much good food and good company as they can afford. Technically the festival has yet to start but there is nothing stopping revelers from enjoying a fortune-telling, juggling, or balancing act. There is however, one young gypsy too busy worrying to even think about having fun. Not that he would be able to even if he were not worrying; for this year he is supposed to-

" _Mattie!_ " Another gypsy, this one several years younger than the first, whines and tugs on the coat sleeve of his eldest brother. "I'm hungry. Can we eat now?"

Matthew stops his pacing and sighs. "Not yet, Peter. We need to wait for Alfred." One of the hardest parts about being the oldest of the siblings: deciding what is more important and what must wait "a little longer". Usually it is understood between the three of them that if they should separate, then they must rendezvous under le Petit Pont; but today, instead of sticking to the same practice, Matthew agreed to change their meeting point to the square, where their tent would be. " _'It will save time,'_ he says. Well how come I am _wasting_ time wondering about _him_?!"

_Step, step, step, step, step- turn..._   
_Step, step, step, step, step- turn..._

"Mattie, I-"

"Not now, Peter!"

_Step, step, step, step, step- turn..._   
_Step, step, step, step, step- turn..._

The sound of bare feet and padded paws slapping against rock echoes from a side street. It is not long until a chant of "Mattie! Mattie!" can be heard along with a faint jingling. Matthew spins around and sees his no-longer-a-baby brother rushing at him with flushed cheeks and a naïve smile. "Is he really that oblivious to the trouble he caused me?" In two, maybe three seconds, all three brothers would be reunited and embracing one another with back-breaking hugs; but to Matthew, it feels like seventeen years are flying by in the blink of an eye:

There is Alfred on that summer day of his birth. He was such a fussy baby...

There is Alfred at five, losing his first tooth...

There is Alfred at nine; holding a newborn Peter and trying hard not to cry as Matthew lays the only person who has ever loved them to rest...

There is Alfred at thirteen. He is not growing as much as he should, but that is okay; he will not have to worry about outgrowing his clothes...

There is Alfred at sixteen; face still smooth and beginning to attract more attention than usual...

Now here he is at seventeen, with his arms around his brothers. Somehow throughout time and everything they have been through, he still is not completely aware of the looks people give him: of the eyes that linger or the noses that bleed whenever he bends over...He is at _that_ age and they will need to talk soon, but for now, "Al! Where have you been? Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

"I'm hungry!"

"You are not helping, Peter." Matthew folds his arms and taps his foot impatiently as he waits for an answer. He tries his best to keep a reprehensive look of his face, but with his brothers, that is not a very easy thing to do.

Alfred, a dancing, cross-dressing, gypsy boy (probably the only one in existence) wrings the folded hat in his hands. "I'm sorry," he says. "I went back for this and got held up." He held out the old and wrinkled hat with a slight tremble in his hands, unable to look up at his brother.

Another hard thing about being the oldest: having to be the "understanding older brother" whilst being the "respectful and responsible parent". Matthew has had a hand in raising his brothers ever since he was five but he took on the full responsibility when he was fourteen; and he still has not mastered balancing "scolding" and "comforting". "Al..." he sighs. "I do not care about money. We could have gotten more."

"..."

"At least you had Kumajirou with you..." He sighs again. "How much did you get?"

"Not much...some deniers, maybe a sol or two."

Matthew takes his hat and gives back the coins. "Take them and take Peter." He lifts the boy and passes him to Alfred. The little runt squirms around and makes noisy protests but one hit to the backside later and he is biddable, though a little pouty. "Peter, stay quiet and cuddle with Alfred. Whine _only_ if you need to. Al, _do not_ smile. If you look pitiful, you might be able to get more than you can afford."

Peter softly whines, "I am not a baby..." but wraps his arms around his brother anyway; nuzzling his face into the crook of Alfred's neck. It is a routine that they have used plenty of times before and they plan to use it as long as they can. It does not always work, but when you are a gypsy begging for money or food, it helps to look half-starved and helpless.

"The tent is set up, but I need to get your clothes from that Hungarian seamstress. Meet me at the tent when you are done. We will eat in there." Matthew kisses his brothers' foreheads. It is a loving gesture, a silent reminder to be safe, and an opportunity to communicate with one (Alfred) without scaring the other (Peter). "We need to talk."

"You're not mad at me, are you?"

Matthew knows he should quell his brother's fear (Alfred has never been comfortable with angering or disappointing someone important to him) but the look on his face is perfectly miserable and it _does_ help to look helpless..."Kuma, come!" At the command, the bear leaps into his arms. "I will see you two at the tent."

* * *

_Drums are rolling!_

_Trumpets are flaring!_

_The masses are cheering!_

_Paris shakes with thunderous applause!_

_The Feast of Fools is about to start!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yeah after going over the chapter to redo the format, there wasn't really anything that needed to be changed. I still do hope that you guys enjoy this chapter and be sure to leave a review.


	4. Charivari

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally written and posted on FFN in 2013. It was edited and updated on FFN a few days ago. The one posted on here is the updated version. If you wish to sing along, the songs used in this chapter are Topsy Turvy from the animated Disney version and Rhythm of the Tambourine from the English adapted stage musical.
> 
> Rhythm of the Tambourine is more of a diegetic piece (it's a song that exists as a song in the story) and while I can't see Alfred coming up with all of the lyrics himself, I definitely can see Matthew creating the song and having Alfred sing it lol.

**_Charivari..._ **

After setting his ambition, Ivan has donned a pair of gloves and a large beige cloak with a hood. It is not a perfect disguise, but he knows that as long as he slouches a little, keeps his hood up, and keeps his scarf wrapped around his neck and mouth, he will be fine.

Sneaking out of the cathedral is not as easy as he had hoped. Even though he is disguised, the clergy and whatever few parishioners there are in the building would not feel comfortable with seeing a such a bulky figure walking around; so Ivan still must slink through the shadows and climb along the edifice.

Shimmy down a column...

Slide down a buttress...

Scale down the statues...

It is of no inconvenience to Ivan. In fact, as he makes his way closer and closer to the ground, he wonders why he never thought to do this before.

Ivan stops for a moment due to the buzzing sounds below. Never before has he heard such hubbub! Not even at weddings! It is wonderful to hear such sounds though; the sounds of happy people and calm celebrations. Yes, calm celebrations; for the Lord of Misrule has yet to appear and the festival will not truly begin without him! Ivan scans the crowd. Indeed there are jugglers and musicians and entertainment of all sorts, but never has he seen them with such detail. It is even more impressive now that he can count how many of what things are being juggled; four batons over here, six pens over there, and that one is juggling five colorful balls with one hand! The music is nice, it is not as beautiful as he thought it would be, but it does have a nice beat and the people dancing do look wonderful. Their steps look so much more complicated than he thought and it is amazing to see them all in sync with the rhythm yet conducting their own steps; only matching the movements of their partner or partners. There are some things he has never even heard of too; people balancing things on their heads and faces, men swallowing swords and eating fire! Those sorts of things are hard to see from his tower.

Ivan also decides to glance at the mystery play. He has always been curious about those, but it is rather hard to follow along when you cannot see the actors or hear the dialogue. It would have been nice for Ivan to have finally seen one without such a nuisance ("would have" being the key words here) but that is not the case. For some unknown reason, there is no mystery play! The stage is set and there is a banner sign, " _L'un vers L'autre_ ", but sadly no actors and no audience.

Ivan probably would have thought about that some more, but the drums are rolling and the trumpets are flaring. The crowd claps and cheers as it makes room for the people and carriages parading into the square. Hooded and dressed in black, the chorus walks in single file, waving their furled sails and banners as they chant to the crowd.

_Come one, come all!_   
_Leave your loops and milking stools._   
_Coop the hens and pen the mules._

Ivan takes a deep breath and looks back to the bell tower. "It is only one afternoon," he tells himself. "One afternoon of sunshine and fete is certainly worth the risks." He leaps onto a line of bunting streamers and slides down to the post it is tied to. It so happens though that the next line he grabs is not as secure as it should have been, and Ivan uncontrollably swings over the party goers' heads...

_Come one, come all!_   
_Close the churches and the schools._   
_Tis the day for breaking rules._

...and lands in front of the singing group.

_Come and join the feast of..._

" _Fools!_ Hahaha!" A stubble-chinned man dressed so vividly and slightly eccentric, radiating an attitude to match, slides from the garments betwixt a chorus man's legs. Such an air can only belong to the Lord of Misrule; and as he laughs, the sails unfurl and a thick fog of confetti bursts onto the atmosphere. Though the crowd share a round of laughs and smiles as they drink and dance, all Ivan can think of doing is getting away- getting out of this clearing and into the sea of constantly moving bodies where he could never possibly be noticed.

But the mock lord will have none of that! Francois has a show to put on- an audience to entertain! And nothing shall stand in his way! He grabs the closest person, some guy wearing a hooded cloak, and dances around with him.

_Once a year, we throw a party here in town._   
_Once a year, we turn all of Paris upside down._   
_Ev'ry man's a king, and ev'ry king's a clown._   
_Once again, tis Topsy Turvy Day!_

Francois dances all over the place. There are plenty of creative performers and costumes around, but Francois only features the best of the best. After all, there is a reason he was chosen to head this party; but there is one person who does not seem quite right. A hooded man, the very one he twirled with before, does not seem to be enjoying the fun like everyone else; and Francois cannot help but think, "Well we can't have that now, can we?"

_Tis the day the devil in us gets released._   
_Tis the day we mock the prig and shock the priest._   
_Ev'rything is topsy turvy at the Feast of Fools!_

Could a festival cause stress? According to Ivan, yes. Never before has he been so nervous of someone seeing him! And though the disguise helps, he would still rather not draw any attention to himself. However, that sort of thing happens when the Lord of Misrule chases after you. Ivan hides behind a banner; he is there to tear it away. Ivan runs into a small tent; it turns out to be a puppet theatre, and there he is to make Ivan a part of the show. It also does not help that everywhere he turns, Ivan sees an amusing form a madness: dogs walking men, a horse with two rear ends, a lobster cooking a chef, and of course the beyond bizarre costumes intermingling with the normal folk! It is all such very strange scenery to take in, especially when he is running here and there without a chance to stop.

_Topsy Turvy!_  
 _Everything is upsy-d_ _aisy!_

Ivan tries his luck with another tent. With its small size, there is no possible way multiple people could fit in there; and with everything happening out in the open, who would be hiding away in a tent? (other than himself of course) He only needs a minute or two to himself. After all, the plan was to blend in with the revelers and take in the attractions, not throw himself into the center of chaos!

_Topsy Turvy!_   
_Everyone is acting crazy!_

He runs inside, ready to sit down and take some deep breaths; but no! There he is again, the Lord of Misrule; and this time he has and army of scantily clad dancers! Somehow he manages to capture and drag Ivan in their chorus line course to a slightly larger tent!

_Dross is gold and weeds are a bouquet._   
_That's the way on Topsy Turvy Day!_

It is all too much for Ivan and he needs to get out now! In his panic and need to breathe, along with his desperation to be as unnoticeable as possible (and lose that mock lord), Ivan tries to crawl backwards out of the tent (It is his only option since his arms were seized by the dancers).

What he is not expecting though, is to step on his scarf, causing him to slip, trip, and tumble backwards thanks to his angle and momentum.

The world is turned upside down as Ivan falls head-over-heels into yet another tent. Ivan swings his arms, trying to find something to hold onto and gain his balance, but the only thing he can grasp is a bright red curtain. He faceplants onto the floor with the curtain over him and hears a high-pitched shriek; one that he assumes came from a woman that was behind said curtain.

Ivan fumbles around in the curtain. Though he cannot really see anyone, he hears enough noises to know that there is more than one person in the tent with him; and they are probably looking at him oddly. It is embarrassing to know that he has barged in a on a company of strangers, but when he hears a quiet "Put some clothes on!" from one of the mystery people, his face explodes into a plethora of pink.

As Ivan attempts to untangle himself, a wet, black nose pushes its way to his face. After a couple of sniffs, the creature attached to the nose growls and backs away. The little opening left behind allows Ivan to see two pairs of legs and a little animal. From the bare, smaller pair, he hears a childish voice say, "Hey! No free peeks! Pay up!" followed by a thwomping sound and a miserable " _Owww..._ "

"Are you alright?" comes another voice; different than both the quiet one and the childish one. Ivan freezes as a hand reaches into his curtain cocoon. He chews his lip and there is a hitch in his breathing as the digits inch closer; only a hair away from touching him...

"I'm sorry!" Ivan throws the curtain off of him. He tries his best to scramble away, but he is surrounded on every side and there is no place to go. Nervously he tugs on the side of his hood; doing his best to make sure no one sees him. "I-I am so sorry..." he mutters. Ivan feels a pair of kind hands help him up; and, despite his objections, the same hands push down his hood. He waits for the inevitable scream, for someone to faint or get angry, for the torches and pitchforks but nothing happens.

"See, everything is perfect." Ivan looks at the owner of the voice and for the first time since landing in the square, he relaxes. Ivan is amazed to find himself in the presence of what must be God's most wonderful creation; but it is not the sky blue eyes, flawlessly smooth skin, honey coloured hair, or thinly veiled curves that causes a goofy grin to sprout on his face. Rather it is the honest smile and warm approach that puts him in such a disposition. In fact, he is so enamored with the beautiful stranger that he almost does not notice the gypsy ask, "You aren't hurt are you?"

"Uh, n-no. I- um- I..." As Ivan rambles nonsense to who must be the woman that was behind the now fallen curtain, he becomes vaguely aware of the other two occupants: a little boy holding his hand out, demanding payment and a young spectacled man holding the boy back, muttering something along the lines of " _this is not a peep show._ "

"Just try to be a little more careful, okay?" the gypsy says as they lead Ivan out of the tent. Ivan cannot bring himself to say anything, but he is very grateful that no one notices the blush on his scarred face. "By the way, great mask dude!"

As Ivan reenters the loud and crazy "topsy-turvy" festival once again, all he can think about is whether or not he would see that beautiful person again.

_Topsy Turvy!_   
_Beat the drums and blow the trumpets!_

_Topsy Turvy!_   
_Join the bums and thieves and strumpets!_

_Streaming in from Chartres to Calais_   
_Scurvy knaves are extra scurvy_   
_On the sixth of Januervy_   
_All because it's Topsy Turvy Day!_

* * *

After the Lord of Misrule's performance, the party tames somewhat; confetti is no longer exploding in everyone's faces, the costumes do not seem so crazy anymore, and Ivan no longer feels as if he is being chased. He spends about an hour or two doing the things he has dreamt of, like playing Dunk the Monk, eating delicious food other than pasta for once, and he even danced a little (though it was against his will).

Of course he made sure to avoid Arthur's field of vision, which was a very hard thing to do; the both of them are watching the belated mystery play (It was hard to miss Arthur's dark carriage, dark clothes, and dark viewing tent). Well, Ivan was trying to watch the play but no one else seems to be paying attention. At the distance Ivan makes sure to keep, he already has trouble actually seeing the stage and all of the noise and commotion made it hard to hear. The first character, apparently they have no name, recites a lengthy monologue and invites another character onto the sparsely decorated stage; but before the audience learns of his name, the Lord of Misrule appears and declares the mystery play over.

To be honest, Francois feels awful for cancelling the play. The story is a very good one; one of lovers finding each other and having a perfect night, only to never see each other again. However he did warn the playwright, a cute kid that he looks out for every now and then, that it would be a little too high brow for the crowd. Under normal circumstance he might have told everyone to shut up and enjoy the romance but, having a job to do, Francois gathers the peoples' attention and introduces a one-of-a-kind act that is sure to please.

_Come one, come all!_   
_Hurry, hurry, here's your chance!_   
_See the myst'ry and romance_

_Come one, come all!_   
_See the finest dancer in France_   
_Make an entrance to entrance_   
_Danse le bel Alfred_   
_Danse!_

On the last word, Francois disappears in a puff of red smoke, and Alfred appears in his place.

At first the audience is startled from the trick, but one moment later a collection of gasps and wolf whistles ring throughout the crowd. Everyone, even Minister Kirkland, stare in jaw-dropping astonishment at the bewitching vision dancing before them.

_"Hey, soldier-boy! I see how you stare_   
_Hey, butcher-man! I see you admire_   
_Come gather 'round- Hey, Jacques and Pierre!_   
_Come see me dance_   
_To the Rhythm of the Tambourine!"_

Alfred struts and dances around, hitting his tambourine in time to the music.

Ivan looks on in wonder. He has heard music and singing throughout his entire life, and yet...there is something entirely captivating about this particular performance. Something wholly different from the hymns and gospel lullabies Notre Dame has entertained and soothed Ivan with; for he finds himself drawn- as if by a gentle yet undeniable force- closer to the stage. Closer than he had dared to venture during the mystery play. And nothing- not the sounds of the crowd, not the fear of being truly discovered, not even the threat of his Master's ire could bring him back to his senses.

_"Flash of an ankle! Flip of a skirt!_   
_Feel them excite- Inflame and inspire!_   
_Come see me dance! Hey, what can it hurt?_   
_It's just a dance_   
_To the Rhythm of the Tambourine!"_

Though Ivan has been taught that such activity is a sin, he finds himself hopelessly enjoying the twirling beauty; for now at his much closer proximity to the stage, he can see that this is the very same person he had stumbled upon earlier. Now however, this Alfred (Ivan twiddles with his scarf as he realizes that "she" is actually a "he") is wearing something much more risqué. White fabric sewn with such a clever design; the bodice clings to his chest while the skirt flies as if out of free will, showing as much leg as possible, and a blue sash is wrapped around his hips, acting as a beacon to attract the eyes. But Ivan barely pays any attention to Alfred's shape (or to the crown of festive coloured flowers in his hair), it is the boy's face that captivates him: how he smiles so freely and innocently; how that smile seems to brighten when he turns in Ivan's direction; and is it his imagination, or is the gypsy boy looking at him? Fanciful thinking or not, Ivan feels compelled to give his very own heart away and without any thought or care, he surrenders it.

In the shade of his tent, Arthur too finds himself mesmerized by the gypsy boy's hypnotic routine. His jaw drops, his eyes bulge from their sockets, and his eyebrows almost leap from his face! Arthur can feel a heat ignite deep inside his gut as his cheeks and ears redden. He shakes his head and reclines back into his seat. "Disgusting display..." he grumbles to himself, but the blush and the heat refuse to vanish.

Captain Ludwig had been busy posting guards, issuing orders, and surveying the area to pay attention to the provided entertainment; but at the sound of a tambourine, and with the fresh memory of a previously occurred event, Ludwig foolishly casts his obligations aside and turns to the sound. To his surprise, it is the same gypsy boy from the street sashaying his hips this way and that. He finds himself shocked to discover his attention to his duties waning as the teen glides and pirouettes closer to Minister Kirkland's viewing tent- closer to where Ludwig himself is stationed. As the routine continues, the boy's nearness to the Judge increases far more than what should have been allowed, and yet when Ludwig's eyes caught his, the captain could not bring himself to act upon his duty. Instead Ludwig stares transfixed, and wonders about the strange power taking hold in his heart.

_This boy, who is he?_

_This boy, who is he?_

_This boy, who is he?_

Arthur sneers, _"He dances like the Devil himself!"_

_He dances like an angel..._

_An Angel!_

_But with such fire..._

_Such Fire!_

**_Who is he?_ **

More wolf whistles are heard when Alfred cozies onto the Judge's lap. He wraps his blue star-spangled scarf around Minister Kirkland's neck. It is a routine that he was told to use; tease the Judge to please the crowd. For good measure, he even caresses the old man's cheek and kisses his nose. As the tease reaches its climax, he pushes the gaffer away and leaps back to his stage. He spins to the center and strikes a pose to the delighted audience. He even does a cartwheel, sliding into a split, all too proud to have come with this part of the routine himself. As Alfred throws his head back and smiles to the partying Parisians he notices that the man in front of him is the very same man that had crashed into his tent earlier. He lightly laughs, remembering that Mattie had been pretty angry about that. He winks to the man, knowing that it is him underneath that hood and giggles when the man nervously turns away and pulls his hood further over the mask. Alfred cannot understand why he is trying to hide it; it is an awesome mask! Oh well, there is no time to dwell on that anymore. A nod from Matthew signals that the music is coming to an end and Alfred needs to concentrate on the upcoming showstopper!

_Men of Paris, before we get old_   
_Come feel the heat! Come taste the desire!_   
_Feel them within you- Crimson and Gold!_   
_Gold like the coins_   
_You will toss into My Tambourine!_

In a stunt never performed before, Alfred grabs a spear from a solider (it is practically given to him) and plunges it into the wooden planks. " _When I dance to the Rhythm of the Tambourine!_ " Round and round he spins as he sings and slides down the shaft. As he gets closer to the spear head, he curls one of his legs around the shaft and kicks the other into the air. He drapes along the stage floor before lifting himself up, arching his back and striking another pose as the music ends.

The performance was a tiring one and he had been nervous the entire time but as Alfred hears the cheers and as he and the stage are literally showered with sols and francs, he believes that the stress had been worth it.

* * *

There are several more acts after Alfred's: a Greek gypsy showcases his trained cats (and then falls asleep on the stage), a girl with pigtails balances two swordfishes on her face, and a Spanish gypsy and a Portuguese gypsy juggle tomatoes before hitting each other with them; just to name a few. However, the only performance that comes close to having the same reaction as the first is a routine performed by a little gypsy boy with the help of his brother and a bear.

The boy divides his time playing a tambourine that signals the bear cub to perform counting tricks and conducting a series of acrobatic tricks. Although the tricks are impressive, the main reason people are paying attention is because the lovely assistant is none other than Alfred, the dancing gypsy. The final trick is a disappearing act; in which a sheet was thrown over a the bear and then lifted to reveal empty space. When it is over, and as the audience claps, the brothers bow and the Lord of Misrule takes the stage once again. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, the _pièce de résistance..._ "

_Here it is, the moment you've been waiting for._   
_Here it is, you know exactly what's in store._   
_Now's the time we laugh until our sides get sore._   
_Now's the time we crown the King of Fools!_

"I assume you all remember last year's King?"

People scream wildly as a Korean young man with an odd, happy-looking curl is carried on some men's shoulders. Ivan looks confused about it though; he has never heard the rules in regards of choosing the "King of Fools" so he remains quiet as everyone else snickers, nudges, and winks at one another.

"Who here thinks that could top Yong Soo?"

_So make a face that's horrible and frightening._   
_Make a face as gruesome as a gargoyle's wing._   
_For the face that's ugliest will be the King of Fools!_

As the little boy throws confetti out to the crowd, men wearing masks climb onto the stage...

_Topsy Turvy!_   
_Ugly folks, forget your shyness!_

...but the only thing Ivan sees, is Alfred smiling as he offers his hand. Ivan is a little shocked and nervous, but he takes the hand anyway. He does not notice the disapproving glare coming from the older brother, or the growl from the reappeared bear cub, all he sees is Alfred giggling sweetly before dancing to the other side of the stage; where the line-up starts.

_Topsy Turvy!_   
_You could soon be called "Your Highness!"  
Put your foulest features on display!_   
_Be the king of Topsy Turvy Day!_

One by one, Alfred and Matthew pull off the contestants' masks...

One by one, the audience is presented with ''ugly'' faces...

One by one, the face is answered with boos and hisses...

...and one by one, Peter and Kumajirou push the losers into a puddle of mud and piss below.

It is the end of the line and Ivan still is not sure exactly what is going on as, for the second time that day, the gypsies surround him. The smallest pulls down Ivan's scarf, the tallest removes Ivan's hood, but it is Alfred who places his hands on Ivan's horrific face. He tugs at the flesh, thinking it to merely be a mask, but when nothing gives, Alfred intensely examines Ivan before gasping and recoiling in shock! Ivan does not know what is worse: the symphony of gasps and screams coming from the Parisians at the sight of his pale and scarred skin, or the shameful feeling that pools in his gut as the tall gypsy drags his brothers (including the beautiful Alfred) away.

One lady delivers an eardrum shattering cry of, _"MONSTER!"_ and promptly faints into her husband's arms.

There are more cries from random people; each adding to the pain and fear in Ivan's heart.

_"That's no mask!"_

_"It's his face!"_

_"He's hideous!"_

_" **It's the bell-ringer from Notre Dame!"**_

No one really knows what to do about the situation, even Judge Kirkland is speechless; angry but speechless. As for the guards...well, it is not as if there is an actual crime being committed...

Francois mumbles curses under his breath as he observes the stalemate. If the festival stops, he could lose money and could be blamed for this unexpected occurrence; and neither of those things would do. Realizing his only option, Francois gathers everyone's attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, do not panic. We asked for the ugliest face in all of Paris, and voila here he is: Ivan, the bell-ringer of Notre Dame!"

Arthur seethes in his seat as those depraved cretins laud that monster. How dare Ivan disobey him?! He would have to punish the insolent brat somehow. Ivan needs to learn such disobedience has consequences; "Spare the rod, spoil the child'' and whatnot.

Even with the change of attitude in the crowd, Ivan still has a confusing mix of emotions brewing inside. On one hand, he wants to run back to his tower and hide, but on the other hand, the hurt he felt makes him want to hurt other people, especially that cocky Lord of Misrule! And then there is that alluring gypsy, Alfred to consider. Did he plan this? Had his kindness been a clever ruse? Is he laughing at Ivan right now? Ivan is pretty sure that he will never know the answers to those questions, and he is also sure that it is not healthy to think about such things. So he smiles a hideous smile and makes the best of the situation. After all, it is hard to glower when you are given a crown, cape, and scepter; when women are kissing your cheeks; and when people are cheering, singing, and praising you, even if it is something of a joke...

_And tis the day we do the things that we deplore_   
_On the other three hundred and sixty-four_   
_Once a year, we love to drop in_   
_Where the beer is never stoppin_   
_For the chance to pop some popinjay_   
_And pick a king who will put the "top" in_   
_Topsy Turvy Day!_

_Mad and crazy, upsy-daisy, Topsy Turvy Day!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: When I first wrote this chapter (back in 2013) the song Rhythm of the Tambourine had yet to exist. I probably would not have gone back to add the song in this fic but as I'm working on the latest chapter, I do feel that at least part of this song does thematically tie into it.
> 
> Once again thank you guys so much for reading and be sure to leave a review!


	5. La Sorciere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place after a bit of a time skip. We get to see some regular everyday people as well as establish some routines for our main characters before the plot takes off again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is heavily inspired by La Sorciere and L'Enfant Trouve from the opera Notre Dame de Paris.
> 
> Emma is Belgium and Felicia is Fem!Italy.
> 
> La Conciergerie is the prison portion of the Palais de Justice. (But you guys are smart so you already knew this right? lol)
> 
> This chapter was first written in 2013 and is the start of the divergence from both the Disney plot and Kat With Shamrocks' version.

_**La Sorciere...** _

The apothecary business is not a very lively one. People come, they buy things, and then they leave. So when Kiku works a shift at the family shop, he spends most of his time cleaning. It is pretty boring, yet relaxing. Though he would much rather waste his time drawing, reading, or attending his plants, he knows it could be worse; at least he is not making deliveries with his brothers, Karou and Yong Soo. He shivers at the memory of those stressful days as an apprentice.

Occasionally something interesting does happen. Sometimes people need surgery and he can assist his father with those; and sometimes he goes with his sister to deliver a baby. But today must be a slow day...

"Kiku! Kiku! Come quick!"

...or not. "Hai! Is there an emergency?" Kiku grabs the medical bag, filled to the brim with everything one needs on these emergency trips.

Standing in the doorway is Mme. Elizabeta Eldenstien, a seamstress that he is familiar with. Kiku would never call them friends of course, for it is dangerous to be so close to a married woman; but she is a friend of his sister so the two of them do see each other and chat often. Though it has been more often ever since she "stumbled upon" a certain picture collection of his. Elizabeta waves her hand and shakes her head, too out of breath to speak at the moment. "No, but there will be if you do not come right away!"

Kiku allows her to drag him out of the shop, thinking it is probably another sewing incident. That apprentice of hers is rather accident prone.

To Kiku's surprise though, they do not go to her shop. He runs faster when he realizes that they are heading toward the cathedral square. He reasons that it must be a real emergency and not Felicia in need of a bandage. They stop at a bakery but instead of going inside, Elizabeta pulls him behind some crates and a barrel. "What are you doing? I thought there was an emergency!"

"There is!" Elizabeta peers over their make-shift barricade and into the shop ahead. "Emma cannot stall him forever!"

Kiku follows Elizabeta's gaze into a bakery where Emma, another woman he is familiar with, makes and sells breads and pastries. Inside with her though is the cross-dressed gypsy boy who performed in the Feast of Fools some days ago. Kiku blushes and shakes nervously as he guesses what Elizabeta really wants him for.

"You see that guy?"

Kiku nods, having an idea where this is going.

"He has been coming here everyday since the festival!" she giggles. "Weeks ago, some other guy brought in a dress for me to mend and alter but if I had known that _he_ would be wearing it..." Some drool creeps down her chin as various thoughts rush through her mind, "I would have made a few more _altercations_."

Kiku shivers at the way those words dribble into his ears. He definitely knows where this is going. "Please do not tell me that you want me to draw certain...pictures of him.'' The lecherous gleam in her eyes and smile is the only answer he needs. He sighs. "Very well. But if your husband finds out-"

"Ooh! Use him too!"

"...what?"

Elizabeta rolls her eyes and ignores the baffled look thrown her way. "You can use Roderich in the pictures too! You have seen him. You know what he looks like."

Kiku sputters as both his trembling and his blushing intensifies. "Wha- b-but- I- you...I cannot do that! It would be wrong!" He spazzes with embarrassment as images and sounds force their way into his brain. "So, so, very wrong..." Kiku is jostled from his episode when Elizabeta pushes him down and motions for him to crawl to the other side of the crates. They both watch Alfred, the gypsy boy, stroll across the square to the cathedral. The little boy in his arms munches on a bread roll along the way.

"So...?"

Exhausted and exasperated, Kiku replies to the silent question. "H-hai...You can pick them up tomorrow."

* * *

Everyday since the Feast of Fools, Alfred has been dancing at the cathedral square and yaoi obsessed women are not the only ones to notice...

In only one week, Captain Ludwig has changed the integrity of the King's Guards for the better. Instead of an unorganized mess of random guards wandering aimlessly about whenever and wherever they please (usually around taverns and whorehouses), guards are trained and treated as soldiers. They are assigned to report to given locations, patrol the area, make any necessary arrests and report any suspicious activity at the end of their shift. Even though Ludwig is Captain, he does not exclude himself from any assignments and even patrols in the Île de la Cité to remain close to the Palais de Justice. After all, it is an efficient way to make the most of his position. As he makes his rounds, Ludwig keeps an eye on the newer recruits, he observes the progress and payoff of his new system while taking mental notes of any flaws, he offers assistance to those in need and keeps a look out for crimes and suspicious activity, all while keeping a short distance away from Minister Kirkland; ready to report to him if or when he needs to.

At this particular moment, Ludwig is at the Notre Dame square, where he has been known to eat his modest midday meal. It is an effective way to both meet his basic needs and continue working. Here at the square, Ludwig can watch over the law-abiding citizens of Paris and allow both himself and his horse a few moments of rest, while enjoying a humble wurst, a bite of cheese, and a tankard of beer courtesy of a nearby public house.

But the real reason this golden guard chooses to spend his afternoons at the square is not for convenience or out of coincidence. Ludwig comes here to carry out his self-imposed mission: to see and maybe perhaps meet the mysterious gypsy boy (whose name he had been to busy doing his job at the festival to hear) who dances before Notre Dame.

Ludwig would rather not admit it, but the boy stirs feelings within him...

Feelings that are confusing and somewhat distracting...

Feelings that churn as Ludwig watches the gypsy boy speak with the bespectacled gypsy he often is seen with...

It is absurd to believe that initiating a simple meeting, and under such conditions, would take over a week to accomplish. And in the eyes of a battle-hardened soldier like Ludwig, such incompetence is deserving of a demerit and a demotion! Nevertheless, every time Ludwig tries to approach the gypsy boy, something comes up. It is as if fate is actively trying to keep the two apart! But Ludwig has stared down fate many times before and has always refused to willingly go along with her schemes should they interfere with his own wills. So as the gypsy boy twirls his skirt and shakes his tambourine in accompaniment to the other gypsy's flute, Ludwig steels his resolve and marches towards the gypsies-

"Stop! Thief!"

-only to be intercepted by a law-breaker.

Damn fate! She saw him going for the beautiful mystery and literally threw a criminal in his path. One step and BAM! a shabby man with dark hair and fair skin crashes into him. Unable to stand after his impact with the Captain's armor, the man collapses onto the cobblestones, landing at the feet of both Ludwig and his pursuer.

"Captain..." the pursuer wheezes out. "Th-this man- this gypsy-" he hisses the last word, narrowing his eyes at the quivering man on the ground, "has stolen from me! There I was, just minding my own business, when this thieving rat cut my change purse from my belt!"

"I did no such thing!" the man says in what sounds like a Bulgarian accent. "This purse is my own! I never went near him!" The man stays on the ground, hunched over in a trembling bow as his head shakes from side to side to further indicate his innocence. "The purse was a gift and I have earned every coin inside!"

"Liar!"

Ludwig steps between the two men to prevent a fight from breaking out but the commotion has attracted a number of spectators and Ludwig's authority is lost amongst the shouts and shoves.

"What's going on here?!" The crowd calms down as a dark carriage stops onto the scene. Its occupant, Judge Arthur Kirkland, leans out and looks down on the people before turning to his coachman. "Why have we stopped?" he demands. Though he expects an answer from his coachman, the only person bold enough to speak to him is his Captain of the Guard.

"An altercation, sir." Ludwig brings both men forward for his boss to see. "There is a dispute over the rightful ownership of a change purse. I think the best course of action would be an interrogation, sir...Sir?" Ludwig lifts a brow at his boss who is staring wide-eyed at something in the distance. Ludwig clears his throat. "Sir?!" He asks a little louder, trying to gain his attention.

"Oh! Um..." Arthur clutches the fabric over his chest and refocuses on the problem before him. "Arrest them! Take them both to the Palais de Justice." Arthur commands. He scoffs at the gypsy. "That one probably is the liar and thief but they are both guilty of fighting and disrupting order therefore, both of them should be punished."

"And the money, sir?"

"Donate it to the church." Arthur says. "It would serve better in the hands of God than in their rakish grasp."

"Yes sir." Ludwig salutes his boss and whistles to his horse. With no other guards around, he would need to restrain the crying men to his horse's saddle, that is, until he finds some guards to help him out. Ludwig looks back to the gypsy boy still standing on the steps of Notre Dame and groans. "Damn fate..." Oh well, maybe tomorrow Ludwig would be able to speak with him.

* * *

Everyday since the Feast of Fools, Alfred has been dancing at the cathedral square and a confused, enamoured, slightly-in-denial guard is not the only one to notice...

Arthur clutches at his chest and breathes deeply as the carriage continues forth but he is barely able to control his shaky breath. His bones rattle in his sweat-coated skin, and his heart flips and flutters! Seconds pass as hours in that stifling hot box and all Arthur has to signify that he is in fact moving forward are the now very noticeable jolts of the carriage as he passes over pebbles and broken stones. But just as he is ready to tear his hair out, leap onto the street and go on foot to Notre Dame, his destination, the carriage stops and a gruff, "We are here, Monsieur," comes from the coachman. Suddenly Arthur feels as if it is too soon the be there. Nevertheless, Arthur smoothes his clothes out, fixes his face into his usual sanctimonious scowl, grabs his basket, and steps out into the refreshingly cool air, only to see the very person that has been haunting him for days.

Arthur's hand instinctively clutches at the fabrics over his chest, grasping onto the sacred trinket underneath, as he takes notice of the pagan dance. Do not dare to think that the righteous Judge's eyes would linger! Of course they would not! But in his observings, as one cannot help but to observe as they walk by, Arthur is met with a cautious glare from the flute playing gypsy who is without a doubt in cahoots with that slut of a gypsy, Alfred.

Silently however, he thanks the dirty little urchin for the glare. For such blatant insolence has broken through his trance and given him the chance to finally enter into Notre Dame.

"Buongiorno, Minister Kirkland!"

Despite all of the years that they have known each other, Arthur has never been able to tolerate Father Feliciano for very long. It is mostly because, in Arthur's opinion, a man of Felicioano's position and age, with silver hairs peeking and wrinkles starting to form, should not be so daft and gluttonous. "Good afternoon, Father Feliciano." Arthur says with a respectful and mostly sincere nod. As a parishioner opens the door to come inside, gypsy music and a few cheers accompanies him and Arthur once again clutches at his chest. "Father, are you aware of the heathenish performance that has been plaguing your steps this past week?"

"Ve~?" Father Feliciano tilts his head in thought. After a moment, he smiles and claps his hands. "Ah! You mean the music!" He says. "It is nice, yes? And everyone loves it! It is wonderful to see so many happy faces. Ve~! Do you think Romano would like the music? He is usually outside tending to his little tomato garden but-"

"Excuse me, Father," Arthur interrupts, knowing that if he does not stop the conversation now, it probably would last until the late hours of night. "Forgive me for cutting our chat short but I really must be going." Arthur gestures to the staircase to emphasize his point. Father Feliciano nods in understanding but shivers slightly as he remembers where- or more specifically, to whom- those stairs lead to.

"I-I understand. Would you be staying for dinner? Tonight, we are having pasta~!"

"Thank you for the offer, but I must decline. I have a- um...previous engagement." Arthur makes his way up the winding stone steps. He clutches at his chest again, his nails lightly scraping at his skin beneath his clothes, as he thinks about said "engagement". Preoccupied with his thoughts, Arthur's feet lead him to the bell tower.

For the past week, Arthur has been bringing his mischievous monster food prepared with far less care than usual. The coal-like texture and stomach aches the overgrown savage would be sure to get has been a sufficient punishment in Arthur's eyes, but today will be different. "Good afternoon, Ivan." Arthur smirks as Ivan jumps at the sound of his voice.

Ivan mumbles out a, "Hello master," and starts fidgeting with the tassels of his scarf. His voice comes out hoarser than he expects thanks to his past meals. Ivan shudders at the sight of the basket being placed on his table, but to his surprise, instead of smoldering rocks, the basket is filled with charred (but edible) bread, bramble berries, and a slice of slightly overripe brie. "Thank you, master! Thank you!" Ivan gasps out.

Arthur leaves Ivan to his meal. He looks outside to the dancing figure below and sneers. Arthur's fingers twitch at his side as he tries to ignore the sudden weight of the trinket and the warm feeling pooling in his gut. He breathes deeply through his nose and tries to keep the quiver out of his voice as he asks, "Ivan...do you know of the gypsy- that _gutter trash_ downstairs?" The coughing and choking sounds behind him tells Arthur what he needs to know, but Ivan still answers.

"H-he danced at the festival and...and he dances at the square."

Arthur nods along and takes another breath. "...And do you look upon him? Upon that barefoot _bitch_?" he hisses out.

"..." Ivan trembles in his seat and clumsily fiddles with scarf again. His mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out.

Arthur turns sharply to glare heatedly into startled eyes of violet. "To look at him is a mortal sin! That witch! He poisons the hearts and souls of the disciples of Notre Dame with his lecherous ways." Arthur takes a few breaths to calm himself and clutches at the now searing hot trinket still lying under his robes. "He ought to be imprisoned," he mutters. "In fact..." Arthur drops his voice to a whisper. He is well aware of their privacy but secret words have a tendency to echo about and what Arthur says should not reach anyone else's ears. "Tonight you will seek him. You will chase him in the alleys and bring him to _La Conciergerie_. There, I will lock him away and teach him the only true religion of Christ and the Holy Mother." Arthur pets Ivan and smiles as he leans into the touch. "If I can bring your savagery under control, then by the grace of God, I am certain I can tame this wanton." Arthur takes his hand away from the flaxen locks and turns away. Again, he takes silent deep breaths and tries to keep his passions under control.

Ivan however mistakes his master's sudden deviation as a sign of repulsion and rejection. In a panic, Ivan leaps up from his seat and genuflects in servility. "Anything you ask of me I will do." Ivan desperately reaches up to clutch at the familiar dark and velvety robes. This past week has been particularly torturous to him; being regarded with critical, accusatory glares and harsh silence, Ivan thought he would go mad with the lack of contact! After all, he is already isolated from society; even though he has been crowned, paraded, and celebrated as the King of Fools, Ivan is not foolish enough to hope that people would welcome him with open arms. Even those Italian priests, who have known him since his days of boyhood, keep themselves from his company; so Ivan does not expect better from the bleating masses they attend to. However, should his master distance himself, take away what little connection to humanity he has, Ivan's heart would surely grow heavy with sorrow and fall right out of his chest! "Anything and everything for you! You who named me and fed me- the orphan abandoned by parents, who were ashamed to have brought a monster into this world- you who watched me grow and suffer, who offered me sanctuary and gave my wretched existence purpose by allowing me to ring the beautiful bells!" Ivan drops to both knees and lowers himself further to the floor. He continues, "You taught me how to speak and even now teach me to read and write, even though you could have kept me in chains like the animal I am! For everything you have done, I belong to you even to the depths of my soul and just as a dog obeys its master, I will do anything you ask of me."

Arthur tenderly pets his monster again; a satisfied smile resting upon his lips. "I expect nothing less of you, Ivan. Do _not_ disappoint me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments and the kudos! And be sure to leave one if you enjoyed this chapter! Also I'm curious to see if anyone has read this before or if this is your first read through?


	6. The Streets of Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! This chapter contains an attempt to phonetically spell out the sound baby polar bears make.
> 
> This chapter was originally written and posted in 2013 on FFN. When I first posted it, I felt like it was kinda rushed so I might change some things to fix that.

_**The Streets of Paris...** _

As the sun sinks lower into the sky, covering Paris in a veil of angry red, the crowds drastically thin out. Shops close and families gather in houses of wood, wattle and daub to partake in prayer and an evening meal. The more ignoble rabble visit alehouses, gather in alleyways, and slink into suspicious houses adorned with red lanterns; where they will spend the better portion of the night. A fog creeps along the ground, giving the city an eerie look. It is another night in Paris.

At the moment, three gypsy brothers make their way through the dimly lit streets while enjoying a late dinner. They walk quickly but chew slowly on their meager meal of meat and bread; savouring the delicious taste and the infrequently experienced feeling of having warm and full bellies. Meandering between their legs, Kumajirou eats the precious pieces that fall from the brothers' faces. The trio chat and joke with one another as brothers often do. Peter bounces here and there, dancing circles around the older members of their little family. "That was delicious!" he says after finishing the last of his meat and bread. "The best we've had since forever! I want to eat like that everyday!"

Matthew and Alfred share a look. Alfred reaches out for Matthew's hand and gives it a firm squeeze but the reassuring gesture does nothing to brighten Matthew's dark and weary eyes. Turning to his energetic younger brother, Alfred forces a carefree smile onto his face. "Hey Peter, do you want to see Kumajirou do a trick?" Alfred breaks off a piece of dangling meat and waves it around; gaining the attention of both his younger brother and the bear cub.

"Oh! I want to do it! I want to do it!" In his excitement, Peter does not even wait to be handed the meaty treat. Instead, he latches onto his brother's arm and pries the prize from the slackened hand. He then unties the tambourine from Alfred's hip. He drops it a few times; each crash on the ground rattles the zils and dirties the drumhead but eventually Peter gets a firm enough grasp on the frame. "Kuma! Kuma! I need you to jump for me, alright?" Peter strikes the tambourine once, twice, thrice and then shakes it in the air.

Kumajirou stares at him nonchalantly.

"Come on Kuma. Jump!" He strikes the tambourine three times again and shakes it in the air.

Again, Kumajirou does not respond.

Frustrated, Peter puffs out his cheeks. On his third time trying to convince Kumajirou to perform a trick, he does not even bother with striking the tambourine and instead shakes it while crying, "Jump Kuma! Jump!" And once again, Kumajirou does not follow through with the command. Instead, he topples Peter over and licks the treat right from the little boy's fingers. "Kuma, get off of me! Stop laughing you guys!" Peter wriggles under Kumajirou. Fortunately, he does not have to wait long for Matthew to lift the bear cub off of him; and when he is able to get back onto his feet, he throws the tambourine at Alfred. "How come he won't jump?" he asks with a pout.

"He is probably tired." Matthew says with Kumajirou in his arms. "Maybe you should hold off on the tricks until tomorrow."

”He is not the only one who is tired." Alfred halts his steps and scoops a yawning Peter into his arms.

Peter tries to argue that he is fine and able to walk the rest of the way home but his grumbled slur of, "'Mmm nah tiiiire..." does not fool anyone.

Matthew sighs. "If you say so, Peter." Despite Peter's assurances that he is in fact wide awake, the youngest gypsy brother quickly falls asleep in the warm, apple-scented embrace. There is a brief silence as the older brothers carry on; both slightly weighed down by their cuddling cargo. It is not long until they reach Petit Pont, the half-way mark of their commute. Normally on nights such as this, when Peter is too busy sleeping to be underfoot, and Alfred too distracted humming an old lullaby while his eyes flit from star to star, Matthew ponders over the more memorable moments and decisions of the day. What could he have done differently? What can he do better? Always thinking and planning and strategizing; usually of ways to avoid trouble or different tactics to use for earning, spending, and saving money. His musings were often interrupted by gurgles and growls from his brothers' bellies- a shameful noise he could never forgive himself for. And though tonight they are all fortunate enough to have silent stomachs, the very knowledge that fullness is an exception instead of the standard robs him of the victory and pride he had felt in being able to make it so in the first place. "Am I really that bad?" Matthew asks. The question is a rhetorical one and only slips out through his lips because he is too tired to be mindful of what he says, but Alfred does not figure that out.

"Bad?...with what?"

Matthew sighs. "Nevermind...tis nothing. Forget that I even said anything."

"No, really Mattie...bad with what?" Alfred hastens his pace in order to keep up with Matthew's slightly longer strides. Matthew glances back to Alfred. He opens his mouth, "...!" and ultimately closes it. He notices a strange movement some distance away- a fluttering of fabric- as what appears to be a large shadowy figure dashes into an alleyway. After observing the suspicious motion, Matthew turns back around and quickly leads Alfred across the rest of the bridge. "Mattie, answer me." It- whatever it is- could be nothing at all. Then again, murders and muggings are known to occur at such an hour and such concerns are strong enough to make Matthew put aside any feelings that came from Peter's careless yet honest comments regarding his inability to be a provider. Instead, as a low growl from Kumajirou wafts into his ears, an overwhelming sense of dread fills him, driving him to grab Alfred's hand and run. "Mattie, slow down! What the hell is going on? Why are we running? Why are you-"

"Alfred! Just shut your mouth and run!"

Of course the commotion wakes up Peter, who immediately jostles himself from his brother's hold; which causes Alfred to stop running and help Peter to his feet; which causes Matthew to stop running and turn back to help his brothers. Kumajirou growls louder into the fog. Fearing that something is coming and that they have wasted too much time, Matthew rushes his brothers into an alley. "Shh!" he commands.

"What's out there? What are we running from? What-"

"Shh!" Matthew cuts Alfred off.

"But Matt-"

"Shh!"

"Mattie! My knees hurt!" Peter cries.

"Shhhhhh!" Matthew covers Peter's mouth to muffle his cries. He looks down at the boys knees and indeed they are splattered with sticky crimson and specks of dirt.

"You will be fine Peter." Alfred reaches out to bring Peter into his arms. He looks up at Matthew and smiles a worried yet understanding smile. "Everything will be fine."

Matthew reaches into his coat and pulls out a leather canteen. "Clean his knees," he says while passing the canteen. "Stay quiet and stay hidden. I will be back in a moment."

"But Matt-"

"Stay quiet and stay hidden." Matthew repeats. His voice may be soft and hard to hear, but he speaks with such unyielding confidence and authority that neither brother can bring themselves to even think of disobeying him. Matthew kisses his brothers' foreheads. "If I have not returned within fifteen minutes after you finish," he whispers, "you are to take Peter and go home."

"But-"

"Do _not_ question me, Alfred." Matthew bends down to Peter's level. "You be sure to stay with Alfred and do what he says."

Peter huffs and nods in the manner he knows that obedient little boys are supposed to nod. He looks up into his brother's eyes and asks what he considers a very serious question. "Mattie, when we get home, could you tell me a bedtime story?"

Matthew sighs and ruffles Peter's hair affectionately. "Of course." Matthew looks down at the fuzzy, four-legged family member nuzzling against his legs. Even Kumajirou is pleading for him to stay. Matthew will have none of that though. "Kuma, stop that." Kumajirou continues to wind through Matthews legs. "No Kuma! Stay!" At the command, Kumajirou walks back to the younger brothers. Peter hugs the bear cub as Alfred pours water onto his scraped and bruised knees. Matthew stealthily slips out of the alleyway and spares one last look at his brothers as an ominous feeling suddenly washes over him. He shivers. "Tis probably nothing."

* * *

"But Mattie said-"

"I know what he said!" Alfred drags Peter down the street. "But we need to go home and I would like to get there _before_ the witching hour!"

"But what about Mattie? We need to go back for him! We need to look for him! We need to- Hey!" Alfred picks up Peter and hold him close. As he squirms and flails his little limbs, Alfred tightens his hold. Alfred ignores what he hopes are unintentional hits and whines of, "Put me down! Put me down!" and continues the path home as quickly as possible. He keeps telling himself that everything will be fine; that Matthew could very well already be home and waiting for them. After all, though he has no means to keep track of time, Alfred is certain that he waited much longer than fifteen minutes to leave that alley. Also, unlike Alfred, Matthew does not have a rowdy eight-year-old weighing him down. Even if Matthew is not home yet, they will probably see him the morning. Then they could all have a big laugh about how they freaked out over nothing; and then they would all agree to never stay out so late again!

It takes a while but Alfred notices something odd. Peter has gone silent and still! It is neither the limp stillness of slumber accompanied with deep and gentle breaths nor the relaxed position of boredom or contentment. Rather, it is a rigid stillness and a deathly silence. The only indication that Peter is not completely lost to the realm of the living is the slight yet increasing pain and pressure of ten little fingernails digging into Alfred's skin. "Peter, are you all right?" Alfred lets his baby brother down. The poor boy has become a sickly pale color, his breathing is short and shaky, and his wide eyes are focused on something in the distance. Alfred laughs nervously. "Peter, is something wrong? Stop freaking me out! You're acting as if you have just seen a-" Kumajirou bares his fangs and growls in the same direction Peter is staring in. Alfred slowly turns around; silently wishing on every star in the sky for whatever it is behind him to be something not too dangerous. "Please not a rabid dog..." he whispers to himself. Not too far in the distance, there stands a large, shadowy figure. The fog gives the being a mystical appearance. It has a strange way of moving. It gimps stiffly yet its steps make no noise! It moves as if it is a cursed creature from a grave! Or worse, as if it is a- _ **"GHOOOOST!"**_ Alfred picks Peter back up and runs; screaming into the night! Blinded by terror, Alfred makes turn after turn after turn; not entirely sure of where he is going or where he has been. He is only aware of the cries of Kumajirou and Peter to go faster. His own heart even pleads for swiftness he cannot deliver! Oh! If only he could sprout wings and fly! Then he would carry everyone to safety; like a hero! But Alfred is not a hero from a bedtime story. He is only a dancer and this is the real world. And in the real world, scenarios like this one usually do not end favourably.

It is not long before Alfred makes a foolish mistake. He turns onto a roadway that leads to a dead-end. He goes as far as he can, but there is nothing. No door to go through, no fence to climb over, no crevice to crawl through, not even a crate or a barrel to hide in. Alfred presses himself into a corner and slides to the ground, hoping to stay hidden in the darkness. Who knows?! Maybe the thing will not see them. It might not even be interested in them; Alfred is sure that neither he nor his brothers have spoken against any spirit or seriously transgressed against anyone. Then again, many spirits do not need a reason to harass people.

"Alfie, I'm scared!" Peter hiccups into his brother's neck. He wraps his arms tighter around his brother and sobs uncontrollably.

Alfred tightens his hold on Peter as well. The night air makes Peter's mixture of hot tears and slobber freeze on Alfred's skin and he shudders. "It will be fine." Alfred whispers with a quiver in his voice and a tremble in his smile. He gently presses a kiss to Peter's hair and rocks back and forth a little bit; doing his best to make their bodies as small and unnoticeable as he can. "Everything will be fine."

Not even a moment passes before the shadowed creature from before staggers into their hiding spot. It looms closer; blocking out more and more light, diminishing more and more hope with each step it takes. Fear consumes Alfred as it stands over him. His breath becomes hitched as lifeless eyes of violet bore into his own. The next few moments flow slowly like a viscous sap. Big, strong hands swoop downward. One snatches Peter, ripping him away from Alfred's arms. The other snatches Kumajirou, lifting him from his defensive stance in front of the brothers. The creature drops the struggling younglings behind itself. "Peter!" Alfred tries to rush to his brother's aid, but the creature traps him in its arms. It hefts him up effortlessly. "No! Put me down! _Put me down!_ " The creature hooks one arm around the underside of Alfred's knees and uses the other to keep Alfred bent over one of its broad shoulders. The being ignores the pounding of Alfred's fists and feet.

"Stop, you monster!" Peter pinwheels his arms, causing his little fists to repeatedly slam miserably on the large creature. At the same time, Kumajirou snaps at the being's ankles. "Let go of him you dummy! Dummy! Dummy! Dummy!" The creature mildly pushes Peter away from itself and dashes away. After recovering from his tumble, Peter and Kumajirou get up and chase after the creature. All sorts of scary stories race through Peter's imagination as his brother fades further and further into the eerie fog. He runs as fast as his scrawny little legs will allow, but since when did little boys outrun monsters?

Soon, Peter is no longer able to see Alfred...

Not long after that, Peter realizes that he is no longer able to hear Alfred either...

A sudden and horrifying realization hits Peter far worse than Matthew ever did! Peter is all alone...Never before has Peter been alone; not like this! One or both of his brothers were always nearby; always! Even whenever he wandered off or got lost, they were always close by and ready to scold or comfort him. Every emotion understood and unexplored seep out of Peter, leaving in him a hollowness far scarier and far more intense than any hunger ever could. Tears spill over his cheeks again. He collapses onto the ground and caves in on himself; curling up to become as small as possible. Unfortunately, this makes him cry even more. His little body quakes with sobs as his confused mind keeps saying, "Cry more, they will come...Cry more, they will hear you.." but no one comes. No arms envelop him! There is no burly wool coat to snuggle safely into! There is no skirt or hip scarf to dry is tears on! No words are spoken! No kisses are given! There is nothing but the pain, loss, and-

**_"Wahh! WAAH!"_ **

Peter lifts his head. He knows that weird crying sound. It is Kumajirou! The bear cub, though usually silent, does wail like a baby sometimes. Matthew always would say that it meant he was "distressed"...whatever that means. Peter wipes tears and snot on his sleeve as he picks himself up and stumbles still bleary-eyed over to Kumajirou.

**_"Wahh! WAAH!"_ **

"I'm afraid too Kuma." Peter says miserably. He jumps a little when his foot lands something other than stone; something soft and warm. He lifts his foot and sees a familiar looking white and pinkish star. He gingerly picks it up and brings it closer to his face. "A flower?" He sniffs it. Memories of weaving wreaths, of being swaddled in bright blue, and of sleeping in peaceful happiness between two entities that in secret he still calls "Father Brother" and "Mother Brother" fill his no longer hollow body.

An idea forms!

"Kuma! Kuma!" Peter shoves the flower infront of Kumajirou's nose. Peter knows that Matthew has trained Kumajirou to find at least him. How else would his brothers be able to find him so quickly on bath day? "I need you to find this." He says, pointing to the flattened blossom. Kumajirou climbs on Peter and licks the boys face. "Not me!" He pushes Kumajirou off and waves the flower infront of him again. "Find this! Find Alfred!"

Kumajirou sniffs about and runs ahead with Peter following. Pretty soon they find another fallen apple blossom. Not long after that, they find another and then another. Peter picks up the flowers along the trail, knowing that each one leads him closer and closer to Alfred. "Mattie told me to stay with him. If he finds out that we got separated..." Peter does not want to think about the spanking he would receive if Matthew ever found out.

As they run off to find the eighth flower, Peter crashes into a pair of tall, sturdy legs...

* * *

"Help! Help!" Alfred screams and thrashes increase with each jarring step his captor takes. "Put me down!" Alfred has heard many frightful stories of people disappearing or crossing over into the world of spirits. Their mother used to tell him and Matthew about the monsters that took away children who did not listen to their parents. Those kind of stories would give Alfred nightmares and never let him sleep, but Matthew would always say that they were only stories and if they bother him so much, then he should not ask to hear them. "Put me down! Please put me down!" Alfred silently scolds himself for his pathetic behaviour this night. Really, who runs away and cowers in such a ridiculous place?! He should have kept calm and taken Peter to a safer area. He should have looked for Matthew and brought him to a safer place too. But no, he did not think and now he is being whisked away! This must be the spirits punishing him for being a horrible brother. "Help! Help!"

Harken! In the distance there is a sound. A sound like drums and thunder and it grows louder and louder. "Halt!" A voice deep and unchallenging bellows. "Unhand that maiden!" Alfred's face flushes in embarrassment. He sways when his captor skids to a stop. Alfred sees several guards surround them. Many arms reach out to grab at him and his assailant; none of them very gently by the way. One arm wraps around Alfred's waist and once again he is hoisted into the air. This time however, he is seated upon a proud and powerful steed. "Arrest him!" The voice speaks again. Alfred shudders at the thought of being taken away, but he relaxes when he notices that no one is bothering with him. Most of the guards wrestle below with the creature. It fights back but is eventually overpowered and hauled away.

Only one guard remains behind; the guard who actually rescued him. " _Like a hero_." Alfred tells himself. "Thank you, monsieur." Alfred looks up to the face of the courageous knight. In stunned silence, he marvels at the man who looks every bit like a hero from a story: brave, bold, undaunting, straightforward, firmly rooted in the ways of justice, and of course, handsome. Alfred stiffens as those last words course through his mind. He hides the burning shame of his cheeks by lowering his head, turning away, and pressing his palm to his face.

"Is something wrong?" The knight asks him. "You are trembling."

"I..." Alfred does not know what to say. That he was scared? Because he wasn't! He was not scared. He was just...worried. Yeah, worried. And why would he not be worried?! He had been snatched up by some night phantom and taken away from his brothers. Oh no! His brothers! What happened to Matthew? Where is Peter? They are probably alone and scared- no _worried_ too! And even though Peter has Kumajirou with him, a bear cub is not the same as a hero! This is his chance to prove to the spirits that he is not useless, foolish, or selfish. This is his chance to prove that he can be awesome and capable like Matthew. First though, he needs to answer his saviour. Now if only his mind and mouth could work together...

"Are you hurt? Can you speak?" The knight asks. Alfred feels a nice, warm hand, presumably belonging to the valiant knight, curl under his lower jaw. The thumb and forefinger grasp his chin as the remaining fingers brush across the flesh of his throat. His face is turned back to the knight's but Alfred cannot yet bring himself to lower his palm. "My name is Captain Beilschmidt." Alfred hears the knight say. "I understand if you do not trust men of my position. However, you should know that in my presence, the innocent have nothing to-"

"I AM NOT A WOMAN!" Alfred removes his hand from his face and immediately regrets it. Greeting him are two intense eyes of wonderful blue, filled with promises Alfred knows he must be imagining. "I-I'm sorry!" He dismounts rather ungracefully from the horse and flees from the awkward moment. "There is no time to waste!" Alfred tells himself and he sprints in the direction he came from in hopes of finding his brothers.

Behind him, Alfred unknowingly leaves behind a flustered and red-faced captain...

* * *

In the dark, cold, and lonely night, wails and moans resound throughout the mostly empty halls of the Conciergerie. Most come from the derelict and forlorn dwellers in the dark; their voices raw and lifeless as they slowly wither away.

Of course, the hopeless tune of awaited death is at times drowned out by the ballad of justice: a melody and harmony of strong bodies furnished with warm meats shifting about in a series of correlated movements; a chord of voices play periodically; a percussion of armor and laughter clinking like glasses full celebratory drink; and all of it composed around the steady metronome of metal clad feet as they lead the damned to rooms of stone and iron.

This time however, the song of the goddess blind plays off-key. There are far too many instruments; none of them quite harmonizing together. Armors clamour and scrape against each other. There is no steady two-by-two but rather a loud and lousy thunder on the ground. And voices penetrate the wails of the Conciergerie with their mock and laughter...

The guards drag another man into the cold darkness. "Ah!" One cries. His scream is quickly followed by a round of laughs.

"Something wrong Pierre?" one asks.

The guards toss the man into an empty cell. Matthias, the Dane, turns to the guard known as Pierre. "Tis locked away now, see." He says. "The scary monster cannot hurt you now. Haha!"

"I am not afraid!" Pierre insists. "I was only...startled. I mean, it _looked_ at me! And with such horrible eyes!" He shivers.

Matthias laughs again. "They cannot be too horrible if they are able to look up skirts!" Another round of laughter erupts from the guards.

"Who was that anyway?" one guard asks.

One says, "It was probably some whore."

Another says, "It looked like a gypsy."

"Is there a difference?" Matthias jokes. Again the guards laugh. Matthias faces the arrested man. "Oi!" he shouts. Matthias raps on the iron door. "You are supposed to _pay_ them _before_ taking them away. Give them a few sols and they will do whatever you want. Though with a face like yours, I doubt even the fortune of King Solomon could get one in bed with you!" All of the guards holler and whoop with unbridled mirth. Tears of cruel joy slip down out of a few eyes. Some struggle and gasp for breath. Still others clutch their stomaches and double over in delight as roars of "Haha!"s, "Tee-hee!"s, and "Hyuk hyuk hyuk!"s fill the large prison.

"Who goes there?" calls out a nearby voice. "Speak up! Who goes there and what is this noise about?" From around the corner emerges Arthur Kirkland with eyebrows bristled in irritation.

"Oh! Minister Kirkland, bon soir!" says Matthias with a smile. He nudges the men around him and gives them a look warning them to quiet themselves. "We are but a few fellows enjoying what this night has given us. And what brings you down here monsieur? Fancy a late stroll?"

"Hardly." Arthur answers curtly. "However, I am wondering why my guards are not outside keeping Paris and her people safe." Not needing another hint, the guards return to their patrol, snickering and joking amongst each other, and leave the not-at-all pleased Minister of Justice behind.

A moment of silence passes...

Ivan twiddles with the tassles of his scarf as he nervously glances around his cell. It is not _terribly_ bad. It is dark, cold, and dismal but not a huge difference from what he is used to. Ivan hates the unfamiliarity and misses the comfort of his fellow unwanted gargoyles, but he knows it could be worse. Those bothersome guards could be here with him; yes that would be much worse! Ivan crouches down to peer out of the little barred window on his cell door. He sees his Master on the other side, clutching at his chest and staring ahead at nothing. Perhaps he is waiting for the right moment to let Ivan out? "Master-"

"Hush!" Arthur turns to Ivan. He glides slowly to the door; each step shaking with anger. "You failed me, Ivan."

"But I-"

"Hush!" Arthur brings his hand up as if to strike his charge, but lowers it. Such a thing would be fruitless with the heavy door in the way. "I do not want to hear your apologies or excuses, Ivan." He hisses out through his teeth. "You _failed_ me! And for that, I will not help you out of this mess you have gotten yourself into." Arthur leans closer to the door. His words though low in volume do not lose any power or sincerity. "You will accept any and all charges brought upon you and you will face whatever sentence is given. Consider that as punishment for your incompetence." With that said, Arthur sharply turns and glides away to the living quarters of the Palais de Justice.

"...Yes Master."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I didn't make to many changes. Now that I'm going through it again it doesn't feel as rushed as it did the first time.
> 
> Once again, I really do love and appreciate the kudos and comments! I wish that I could post more but while looking after my niblings this week I do not have much free time.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this fic and be sure to leave a kudos and a comment!


	7. ANArKH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a setup chapter! I'm just introducing characters and ideas that hopefully will payoff later but I still hope that you get a feel for the all of the characters and more importantly that you enjoy the chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally written and posted on FFN in 2013. This chapter originally went through several rewrites including a version where Arthur's practice in alchemy would be highlighted. While it would have been faithful to the book, I didn't really feel as if the sublot would have really gone anywhere in this fic.
> 
> Just so you know, Alice is Fem!England (if you haven't read this before, we'll be seeing more of her later kinda sorta) and Tinja is Fem!Finland.

**ANArKH...**

On the sunning streets of the Ile, an everyday band of crippled gypsy artists orchestrate a clamour of, "La charite! La charite!" Leaden legs drag across the cobblestones and poorly bandaged hands, some missing a digit or three, reach out to the hastily scrubbed and hardly stuffed faces of the plebeian mass as voices call for a coin and a bit of mercy. "Amour! Risque! Bonheur! L'avenir est dans des vos mains!" Some voices, ones belonging to able bodies, preach enticingly of secrets unlocked; of knowledge concerning the future and beyond. Other able bodied ones do not need to shout in order to draw attention. Instead, they perform in hopes of gaining an honest pay. And of course, there are those who will argue that honesty will only warrant hunger, pain, and death and they are the ones who take what they can by any means; be it through deceit or stealing.

Antonio is one of these gypsies. A Spanish-born traveler, Antonio has learnt to save his lute for those who are more loose with their money and instead earns his meals by collecting unattended, unprotected coins and coin purses.

Currently, Antonio is standing in a captivated crowd, facing a pair of gypsy jugglers. While everyone else watches the glittering daggers fly back and forth between the experienced couple, Antonio looks the crowd over for monetary coins desperate to exchange hands. The first person Antonio takes into consideration is a young woman standing at the fringe of the crowd. Should he make his way over to her, no one would think anything of it; he would come off as a man calmly leaving the disorganized throng instead of a thief. And if the children tugging on her skirts indicate anything to someone like Antonio, it is that the young woman is a stressed out mother, lost in her own thoughts and desensitized to the slight touch of a blade skillfully cutting a purse: the perfect target.

Unfortunately though, Antonio suffers from having a strong inner voice that disapproves of taking bread from the mouths of children. "She is young and fair looking," he tells the voice. "It would not be difficult for her to earn back what she looses." But the voice would not relent and eventually, it spoils Antonio's plans. "Be that way!" Antonio silently yells at that meddlesome voice. "Should we go hungry, you keep your complaints quiet!"

The next target to consider is a portly man standing a little closer. Antonio knows the risk involved with picking a pocket so deep within the crowd: he could easily be caught and arrested. Looking at the man's coin purse though, Antonio knows it would be all too easy. He only needs to shuffle a few steps to his left and gently pull at the thread so sloppily stitched into the side of the purse. All sorts of coins would fall into his palms, happy to be out of the clutches of an idiot, and Antonio would be happy too. Given the quality of the man's clothes and his rounded shape, there are undoubtedly some gold francs inside; not many but if there is only one, Antonio would not complain. However, as tempting as the thought of gold francs are, Antonio does not want to chance causing a scene- especially while in such a dense mass- so he scans over the crowd yet again for an easier target. This time, Antonio notices a young man stumbling over to the crowd. With rumpled clothes, a face flushed (most likely from liquor), and a lazy smile that can only come from what many consider to be the greatest pleasure consecrated upon the mortal coil, it is reasonable to assume that the drunken fool has just come from a wonderful night at a nearby bordello. Of course, what is most remarkable about this young man is the pair of over stuffed coin purses dangling from his belt ties.

Antonio smiles.

It is not the deranged display of teeth many often associate with the vagabond grin, but rather a cheery exhibition for Antonio knows that it would not take much effort for him to initiate an "exchange" between himself and the fellow. The fool- still stumbling through his alcohol and sex induced euphoria- would never see him coming. Antonio could "accidentally" bump into him, rid him the burden of having to heft such a heavy load of coin, and disappear into the living commerce before anyone became wise of what happened.

His smile brightens.

A strange yet natural sense of elation and satisfaction ripples along Antonio's skin as the small and sharp extension of himself slides forth from his sleeve and nestles in the palm of his dominant hand. With steps casual but calculated, Antonio makes his way out of the crowd-

**(!)**

-and is immediately pulled aside. Antonio trips and drops his blade as the hand latched onto his arm drags him around a corner. "¡Cómo!" Antonio glances upward, ready to punch the stubbled face of his diverter when- "Francois?...¿Qué estás haciendo?!" Antonio looks back to where the drunken would-be-patron was and watches helplessly as the idiot stumbles away.

"Are you so foolish to think that someone as drunk as him has not been robbed yet?" Francois asks; his voice flowing at an uncharacteristically sullen speed. "That man was coinless before sunrise. His pouches are most likely weighed down by pebbles and wood chips."

Antonio sighs. Not able to hold a grudge, Antonio lets go of his unpleasant anger. He looks amongst the crowd he had recently been immersed in. Bodies are shifting within the hub. People leave, taking their money with them. "Francois...this better be important," he says. "I have work to do, and if you came here only to boast about how many women or men you shared you bed with last-"

"Do you know where the boys are?"

"...¿Qué?" Antonio raises a brow as an uncanny feeling sinks in. Something is definitely not right. This is not how their conversations usually went. Even their more serious discussions- which are more frequent than one would think- usually contain a splash of banter. Both of them would smile and laugh while they jest at themselves either with vulgar comments or clever insults before getting to the heart of the conversation. So this straightforwardness from Francois seems a little unnerving.

"The boys...Have you seen them? Do you know where they are?"

Antonio looks at Francois. He really looks at him; at his reddened and dark-rimmed eyes; at his skin sickly pale and drizzled with an anxious sheen; at his hair, no longer a prideful golden coif but rather a tangled and yellowed heap; at his chin devoid of its beard and replaced with the barbed whiskers more commonly found on a haggard heretic hanging in a gibbet. " _Her_ boys?"

Francois flinches at the reference. "Yes," he softly breathes. "They did not come home last night."

Antonio scratches at his neck. "They are grown," he says nonchalantly, "Or at least Matthew is...This is not the first time they have spent a night away from home and you yourself have gone days without even looking at them. What makes it so dire now?"

Francois stares off to the distance. His eyes glaze over as they focus on nothing in particular. He shivers. The cool January breeze feels more like an icy gale. Seconds transcend into an infinity as the two men stand in silence. When Francois finally speaks, it is in a voice far too weak for someone of his standing and reputation. "She came to me last night..."

Antonio shudders. He tells himself that it is only the wind but that small lie gives him no comfort. "Who?" he asks, though he knows it is a pointless question...

He already knows the answer.

" _Alice_..."

* * *

Darkness...That is the first sensation that Matthew becomes aware of. Darkness and a low, unclear burble. It briefly reminds him of being pushed into a river- floating in a cool, watery seplechre, stunned in a terse moment of eternity, and mildly uncaring of the sounds of people above. But just as that moment of immobile shock gives way to burning panic, so does this moment in this barely conscious state. Matthew sluggishly thrashes through his sombre haze. Slowly he swims to the world of the living, becoming more aware of the voices around, of the fuzzy veil of sleep lifting, of the light fluttering in through his heavy eyelids, of the slight pain reverberating along his back and to his head, and suddenly the memory of running in terror last night raids his mind.

Matthew gasps. His eyes fly open wide and he sits up to take in his surroundings. Walls, a table, a basin, and a chair are the first things that Matthew notices. The second is Alfred sleeping in another chair close by, and the third is the straw mattress bed elevated in a frame of wood. It is strange, uncomfortable, and nothing at all like what Matthew was used to. Last, he sees his glasses sitting on the table. Hastily, he stretches a shaky arm out to old and scratched lenses. When he pulls back with the poorly crafted wire frames in hand, his skin brushes against something hard and smooth that he could not properly see. Startled, he jerks his arm back, accidentally knocking the thing in the process. Of course, it makes a clopping sound after plummeting to the floor and Matthew, after fixing the glasses onto his face, leans over to see what the thing is. "A box?" Matthew picks up the small, open box filled with bandages, a wineskin, and a wooden pestle and motor.

"You looked horrible last night..." Matthew turns around. After Alfred yawns and stretches rather languidly, the two look into each others eyes. The moment stretches painfully as neither can bring themselves to speak. The spasms of Matthew's tounge prohibits him from properly articulating his numerous thoughts. Alfred, put off from the thick silence, bunches at his skirt. He twists the fabric in his fists and in an uncharacteristically small voice asks, "Does it hurt?"

"...What?"

Alfred wriggles in his seat. "Well...um...I mean-"

"Alfred, where are we?" Matthew asks in a deadpan manner.

"Oh! Um, I think-"

Impassively again, he interrupts. "And why are we here?"

"Well, last night-"

"Better yet, why are you here?! And where is Peter?! And what happened last night?! It is a bit of a blur but I know that I explicitly told you to take Peter home!"

"Well, I tried but-"

"I cannot believe you, Alfred! You deliberately disobeyed me! Actually, now that I think aboot it, this is typical behaviour from you! You never listen!"

"But Mattie, I-"

Well, the least you could do is explain yourself, eh Alfred?"

Alfred angrily puffs his cheeks. Frustrated, he says, "I could if you would just let me!"

Normally the sound of a door opening is hardly noticed by human ears for usually doors open when one expects them to, when one is comfortably in their home or visiting another home; but when one wakes up in an unfamiliar environment, with recent memories filled with dread, and aware of the fact that an unknown amount of time has obviously passed by without any recollection of getting from one place to another, then any sudden noises would seem louder than usual and would certainly elicit feelings of shock. So when the door swings open unexpectedly and abruptly, Matthew almost leaps out of his skin. He relaxes though when he sees the rude "intruder".

In trots Kumajirou, wagging his knub of a tail and excitedly as he hops onto Matthew's mattress. Shortly after, Peter runs in with his tiny arms full of fresh-picked apple blossoms. His happy babble of "Mattie!Mattie!Mattie!" and "Didyouseeit?Didyouseeit?" bounces throughout the room, diffusing across the slowly cooling atmosphere. He too jumps on the straw bed, landing hard onto his eldest brother's gut; drawing out an "oomph!" from Matthew.

"Ah! Peter!" A young woman with a plump, round face and short blond hair tied in twin tails runs into the room and hurries to the now crowded bed. She scoops Kumajirou into her arms. "I thought I told you not to- Oh!" The woman looks at Matthew and graces him with a gentle smile. "I see you have awoken already."

Matthew lifts a far too energetic Peter and places him in Alfred's lap. He turns back to the young woman. "Pardonnez-moi, demoiselle," Matthew mentally slaps himself. Here he is in a stranger's house, maybe against his will, definitely without his knowledge or approval. He should be angry. He should be upset. He should be lashing out in alarm and rage, demanding to be directed to an exit, and bashing his flute over the heads of anyone who stands in his way; but Matthew cannot bring himself to act in such a way at the moment. Perhaps his anger and irritation has dissipated during while venting to Alfred. "Could you tell me where I am?"

"Oh!" The young woman turns to Matthew and gives him an honest smile. "I am married see?" She repositions the bear cub, supporting him on her hip and waves her left hand; showing off the metal band around her ring finger. "And my husband brought you here to our house very late last night. Do you not remember?"

Matthew closes his eyes. Images of a dark alleyway, a large shadow, and a large pair of hooves flash before him. He feels throbbing phantom pains, mostly on his forehead but also across his back and he hears faint garbled voices. He sighs. "No...I do not think that I do."

The woman giggles nervously as she sets the cub down. "You were hit pretty hard." She walks closer to Matthew but politely keeps some distance between them. "Your bandage probably needs to be changed."

Matthew brings a hand up to his head. His fingers trace over the rough cloth that he had been unaware of. He presses lightly and quickly retracts his hand when pain flares up.

"That is," the woman pauses. "Unless you want to do it..." she says, gesturing to Alfred.

Alfred shifts around in the chair in a feeble attempt to maintain a grip on the squirming eight-year-old boy. He has one arm wrapped around Peter and with his other arm, he tries to wash his little brother's face. "Um...my hands are kind of full." Alfred dips a part of his dark blue hip scarf into the water filled basin, squeezes it, and then brings the cloth to Peter's scrunched and constantly moving face.  
The young woman laughs softly. "Of course they are. Pardon me." She drags the other chair beside Matthew, sits on it, and takes the box from his hands. "Oh! I forgot. We did not exactly meet, did we? I am Tinja." She says sweetly. "I helped stitch you up after that unfortunate incident last night."

Matthew lightly hisses as Tinja applies a gentle amount of wine to his head wound. "What incident?"

"You were hit by Monsieur Berwald's horse!"

"Peter!" Alfred scrubs Peter's face slightly harder as a punishment.

"Agh! But tis true!"

"That may be, but you do not need to say that with a smile! And his name is Monsieur Oxenstierna."

"Monsieur Oxenstierna?" Matthew muses. "Your husband, n'est pas?"

"Oui. He is a carpenter- Ah!" Tinja drops the bandages. She waves her palms and shakes her head back and forth. "Of course, he did not intend to hit you! It was an accident! But...the horse became startled and he lost control." Tinja picks up the bandages and proceeds to dress Matthew's wound. "He truly is sorry about what happened and even went looking for your brothers after you mentioned them."  
From the corners of his eyes, Matthew takes in the image of his brothers still fussing amongst themselves. The two of them look to be in good condition; no marks or bruises, Peter's knees are clean and bandaged, both even give off an exuberant air usually associated with full bellies and restful nights. Whatever barely bubbling anger there is leftover from his squabble with Alfred dies completely. He looks back to Tinja and says, "That was very kind of you and your husband. Merci."

"D' rien." Matthew looks to the doorframe, where the new voice came from. A tall, tall, unbelievably tall and quite muscular man, who must be M. Oxenstierna, stands on the other side. Berwald bends to walk through the doorway into the now too small and too cramped room and Matthew forgets to breathe as those stern and intense greenish-blue eyes lock onto him. "Ça va?"

After adjusting to the turbulent waves of what Matthew hopes is unintentional intimidation, Matthew finds the breath to speak again. His words however come out meeker than usual. "Ç-ça va bien...M-merci."

Ever impassive, Berwald grunts his response.

"Bonjour Ber!" Tinja smiles at her husband. Reading the atmosphere, she has a feeling that her patient is uncomfortable; and from experience, she is certain that her husband is rather embarrassed as well. "I am glad to see that you are taking a break from work." She says with cheer, hoping to ease the painfully awkward ambience.

Again, Berwald grunts. " I came t' ch'ck on 'r guests."

"Everyone in here is doing fine, Ber! There is nothing to worry about." Tinja absent-mindedly pokes her tounge out as she concentrates on the final step regarding Matthew's head injury. With one hand, she steadies Matthew's head and with her other hand, she carefully pins the bandage in place. "Well, that should take care of that!" Tinja gathers her medical supplies and places them back onto the table.  
Matthew touches the area where the gash is, feeling the smooth stitching underneath. Politely he bows his head to Tinja. "Merci madame." He nods to Berwald. "And merci Monsieur. Thank you for taking us in." Matthew gestures at his brothers who were both making wreaths with the blossoms Peter picked.

"Oh yes- merci monsieur!" Alfred says with a sweet smile.

"Yeah! Merci Berwald!"

"'s nothing," Bewald grunts. "Our 'ome is always op'n to those 'n need." He extends one of his large, wood-dust covered hands to Tinja. "M' w'fe will pr'pare some food f'r you 'nd your family."

Nervously, Matthew smiles. "Oh no! You do not have to- That is not-"

"I 'nsist."

Matthew finds himself dumbly nodding along as Berwald focuses an intense gaze in his direction. "V-very well then...M-merci..."

With a final grunt, Berwald leaves the room, bending slightly in order to fit through the door frame.

Matthew holds his breath as a series of ice cold moments pass within the room, courtesy of their kind yet intimidating host. He comes back to reality when Peter jumps onto the bed again. The little boy thrusts a clumsily made wreath into his face and asks Matthew for his opinion. Matthew smiles softly. "You did a good job Peter." He says while ruffling the little boys hair.

"I want to give it to Tinja. Do you think she would like it?"

"Of course she would." Matthew turns to face Alfred. He rubs his arm as a gnawing sense of guilt comes over him. "Alfie," he quietly calls. "I...sorry. I freaked out and...my behaviour was unreasonable. I should not have acted in that way."

Alfred stills in a rather silly position as he is detangling old and dirty blossoms from his sunny locks. His lips purse as he loses himself in thought. "Tis nothing." He resumes his finger-combing, making sure to gather the crumpled flowers in his lap to avoid making a mess. "I mean, I understand why you were upset, but you have to believe me Mattie! I really did try to make it home last night!"

"Yeah! Tis not his fault that a monster chased us!"

"Peter..." Matthew slaps his hand across Peter's bum. "How many times have I told you not to lie to me? Tis one thing to have an imagination, but to blantantly-"

"I most certainly am NOT lying!"

_SMACK!_

"I have also told you not to interrupt people."

"Mattie..." Alfred jumps a little as both of this brother give him attention. Awkwardly, he wrings his hands and tries not to look either one in their eyes. "I-well...hmm," Against his will, Alfred's lips curl into a shy smile. A coy blush dusts across his cheeks as his thoughts drift back to the night before. "Peter is not lying." His gaze drift out to the window to a sky of wonderful blue...filled with promises..."Um- about last night..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for taking the time to read this! Be sure to leave a kudos and a comment and I will see you guys in the next chapter!


	8. The Man of Many Sins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are probably getting tired of reading this part but- This chapter was originally written and posted on FFN in 2013. I think this is the last chapter that was posted that year.
> 
> Anita is Fem!Norway and Emil is Iceland. Mathias is Denmark- we already met him but we will be seeing more of him later (and really everyone else).
> 
> I was more inspired by the book with this chapter which becomes more apparent later in the chapter (as I struggle with writing action) Speaking of which-
> 
> WARNING! This chapter contains a torture/whipping scene. Also Mathias is dick so apologies to all Denmark fans.

_**The Man of Many Sins...** _

Upon entering a certain courtroom within the Palais de Justice on this day of January fourteenth, one odd and unaccompanied Lady Anita Thomassen is welcomed within an audience of studious scholars, stroking their beards and congratulating themselves for their agreement upon the judgement, and overgrown schoolboys who prefer to entertain themselves and each other with wild stories of the undoubtedly woeful and sullied histories of the guilty. Of course, a few ladies, all of whom are politely acquainted with the quiet and dear Lady Anita, also enjoy visiting the courts; coming in the name of God to offer a small, silent and scripted prayer for those hellbound souls whose names and faces will be fuddled within their lazy imaginations.

After exchanging greetings expected of the well-bred, Anita glides into her usual chair; making sure the silk and velvet of her dress lays perfectly to avoid wrinkles. Resembling a perfect and pristine portrait, Anita fixes her Nordic Cross barrette before folding her hands in her lap and stares inscrutably ahead.

Beyond the seats of the educated, there is a large chair carved of oak and belonging to one of Judge Kirkland's lesser judges, Messire Sadik Adnan. Beside the grand chair, there stands a desk where an auditor, one young Master Emil Thomassen, sits; ready to conduct the legal proceedings. Now, it is no secret that the elderly Messire Sadik is almost deaf. It also is not a problem, for hearing impairment does not impair one's ability to arbitrate. In fact, Messire Sadik has countless times boasted that his aged ears serve more as a benefit than a hinderance; for his near soundless world allows him to think clearly without being distracted by any noise. For, as one would expect, there is usually much noise during Messire Sadik's court sessions; and though Messire Sadik is able to act in silent bliss- though most of the spectators thoroughly enjoy the trial and whatever humor may come of it- there is always one who finds such days to be stressful, the auditor, Master Emil Thomassen.

Imagine having to take notes, continue your studies, and keep the hearings running as smooth and efficient as possible, all the while trying to ignore the annoying rabble mocking the court and trying to get information through to the old, hard of hearing judge! That is what Emil faces almost everyday from eight o'clock in the morning until four o'clock after the noon hour. And on top of that, he must do so under the almost lifeless gaze of his older sister! Yes, when Anita comes in, respectfully after morning mass, and observes him in his work, Emil feels the embarrassment creep up his neck. However, should anyone ask Emil a certain question pertaining to the occurence, he would never respond to it due to both his modesty and his inability to think of a proper response. That question being, "Which is worse: having your sister hovering around or having to watch that Danish oaf of a guard hover around her?"

"Bonjour Madamoiselle~" Emil frowns when he hears the voice of the rowdy lout but resumes his note taking anyway.

Mathias saunters, as is routine of him, to the lovely Lady Thomassen, his teeth flashing in that conceited manner unique to all over-confident womanizers. "Lady Anita, you are looking as lovely as ever." As is routine, Mathias takes her delicate fingers in his, bringing the cold and soft outer palm up while bending to bestow upon it a kiss. "You could not stand to spend your sunday away from me, I see?" And as is routine, Anita makes a sharp retract before any contact could be made. Mathias, ignoring the stinging pain her nails have caused him, chooses to believe the action to be that of a coy and virtuous maiden safeguarding her chastity.

"Good sir, you know why I attend these hearings, and you know that it has nothing to do with your idiosyncratic beliefs."

Mathias laughs, boisterous and with contempt. "Those are quite large words for such a pretty little lady!" He signals a few guards working under his command to escort the convicted away. "Fifteens sols for having worn two rosaries! Tis somewhat dear but such is the way of things, right Lady Anita?"

"Please be quiet. You are disrupting the proceedings."

"Disrupting? How? Tis not as if dear old Messire Sadik can hear me." Mathias turns to face the judge and with a smile and respectful bow he says for everyone to hear, "Sadik, you are a fat, old goat!"

"Yes, thank you young man." Messire Sadik says with a hearty chortle. His belly, round from his numerous helpings of gourmet and ashure, jiggles within his long and luxurious green robes. "And you are doing an excellent job yourself. You and your men, keep up the good work." As the audience takes part in shameless snickering, Messire Sadik calls for the next case and Emil brings forth the proper papers.

Anita glares coldly at the roguish guard. In a voice low and laced with ice, she scolds him saying, "I expect men of the suit to have more respect."

"Darling Anita, did you not know that I am the greatest and most respectable guard and soldier in all of Paris? In all of France?! In the entire world even!"

"How tragic..."

"Yes, in fact," Mathias smirks, failing to notice the snide remark. "Last night I single-handedly bested a beast and rescued a comely little demoiselle- Ah! B-but you are far more lovely, dear Anita!" Mathias laughs nervously, hoping to conceal his slip-up. With a flourish, he conjures his beloved axe, seemingly from nowhere, as another attempt to distract Anita. "For you, I would slay every monster and villain!"  
Anita sighs and looks away, tired of the same old song-and-dance. "As you would for every lady you entertain..."

"Oh sweet, sweet Anita! If only fair, virtuous maidens such as yourself were capable of withstanding such a sight...If only you could have seen it." Mathias puts away his axe and rubs his chin, hoping to appear mature and dignified. "It stood at least twenty-seven hands high!" He says while performing a ridiculous pantomime. "And it had these large and horrible eyes- violet!- like some sort of scrying glass!"

"If you say so..."

"I swear it! But you probably would not believe me or even be able to imagine such a gruesome sight..."

Anita again sighs. "I wonder what gave you that impression."

"Of course, tis a blessing that women are unable to see such disgusting things in their delicate mind's eye." Mathias carries on, ignoring the irritated twitch of Anita's brow. "After all, I would hate to see you fall faint from fright."

And at first Anita does not believe him, for demonic creatures can only be vanquished by angels wielding swords of righteous might. But then comes the sound of many guards; their feet stomping and shuffling through the dimly lit halls. The audience hushes in anticipation, the judge and auditor settle at their desk, papers signed, sealed, stamped, and filed away, and Anita who since birth has always had a mostly melancholic expression to matched her dull and rather melancholic blue eyes, goes pale and her eyes widen. Her brows along with her breathing and heartbeat rise and for a moment, Anita does feel light-headed. Not wanting to risk losing consciousness or swooning into the arms of the infuriatingly obnoxious lieutenant, she turns away unable to look directly at the creature brought forth. Moments later, the shuffling stops. As a ghastly feeling washes over everyone, making their hairs stand, their spines shiver, and their skin swell like goose-flesh, the sound of a collected breath hitching is heard followed by Messire Sadik vocalizing what is sure to be floating about in everyone's mind.

"By Jove! What is that?!"

In walks Ivan, roped and pinioned under a squad of guards. Assisting the guards is the honorable Cdr. Basch, who not since earning his rank has ever handled the escort of a criminal. Apart from the intimidating circle however, there is not much to Ivan; nothing except for his deformity to justify the number of weapons pointed in his direction. Even should one argue that his sheer size warranted extra measures of precaution, one look at his lame leg, kicked and trod upon by metal clad feet, would put those concerns to rest. Plus, Ivan is gloomy and silent. He has the disposition not of a lion clawing at its cage but rather of a horse; spirit broken and tame, allowing itself to be led. Only every so often did his eyes lift to cast a wrathful glance upon his abrading and tight bonds. When his feet finally stop, as well as the pulling and shoving, Ivan directs his dull and sleepy eyes about the courtroom, taking everything in.

The scholars scoff at him, some from behind embroidered handkerchiefs.

The immature schoolboys and a few guards laugh loudly, knowing that there will be no ramifications for such conduct.

The women, the few present, sneak glances at him and whisper to each other in silent derision.

Emil clears his throat to quiet the crowd in vain hopes that the court will not be turned into a farce. He hands over the document of complaint against Ivan to the judge. Messire Sadik, thanks to his condition, is always careful to examine the documents before addressing the wrongdoers brought before him; making sure to know beforehand their names, titles (if any), and misdeeds. This way, his deafness would not be terribly apparent. Of course, he always follows the etiquette of justice; hoping to further delude himself or the few (usually the accused) unaware of his hearing and the people, who have nothing to gain or lose by pointing out the illusion, humor him and keep the information to themselves. So when Messire Sadik confidently commands, "State your name" nobody says anything. However when Ivan, not quite used to speaking to or in front of anyone besides his master, says nothing, the judge, being deaf, thought that he had answered as all accused usually do and consequently continues. "Yes. And your age?"

At that, giggles ripple throughout the courtroom.

Again the words die in Ivan's throat; snuffed out by an overhwelming amount of embarrassment and anxiety. Oh! If only his wrists were free, then he could find comfort in the tassels of his scarf.

"Of course. And your profession?"

The giggles grow in voices and volume, stretching through the air, forming into a bitter and sharp laugh. The remaining spectators, once silent and believing themselves to be above such foolishness, now begin whispering to one another. And when Messire Sadik, ignorant of the defendant's silence and of the audience's noise says, "That will do" with the pride of an accomplished man, most if not all present shake with mirth.

"What luck!" Mathias says. "The stupid on trial before the deaf!"

Ivan's cheeks burn as the laughter continues. He prays, oh how he prays! Let the earth swallow him! Let him shrink! Let him fade away as vapor! Anything to escape the burn of his cheeks, his ears, his neck! His feet itch; wanting nothing more than to flee to the safety of his tower but there are halberds at every side of him and Cdr. Basch even a number of arquebuses at the ready! Endurance is his only escape.

Messire Sadik, believing that his question had been answered, looks over his documents and addresses Ivan again. "You stand here before us accused of: _Primo_ \- causing a nocturnal disturbance; _Secundo_ \- striking, and attempting to rob and violate the person of a prostitute; _Tertio_ \- rebellion against the soldiers of our lord, the king. Explain yourself."

"..."

"Master Emil, did you write that down?" At this the entire room shakes with a burst of cackling. The laughter, so violent and contagious, rattles the auditor's desk; making papers scatter, the ink splatter, and already overworked Emil scramble to right what took hours of work and organization. Messire Sadik has no choice but to notice it and thinks that the laughter had to have come from some quip of the accused, hiding cowardly behind that scarf of his! "You dare to mock me, monstrous knave?!" screams the angry judge. "You dare to make a mockery of the king's court?! Of the ones appointed to keep order and charged with the task of searching out evil conduct?!"  
Still Ivan says nothing. What can he say? Even if by some miracle his tongue manages to overcome paralysis, he was ordered to accept any charges brought against him. Even without the ropes, his hands are tied!

"For your disloyalty, disrespect, and offence against the court as well as the accusations that I have indeed found you guilty of, I demand a penalty fitting of your crimes!" Messire Sadik then turns to the guards surrounding Ivan and looks for the highest rank amongst them. "Commander Basch," he calls, his voice still ablaze with wrath. "You are to take this creature to the pillory of the Notre Dame Square, where he shall be flogged and turned for one hour. Emil, draw up the account of the sentence!"

And Emil set to work doing so. The process is simple and quick but Emil's hands, weighed down by a slight feeling of pity for the large and disfigured man, move at a slow pace. Of course, the deformity is unnerving and the man is guilty in both his eyes and the eyes of the law, but the punishment seems a little harsh for someone who did not speak a single word. With well-meaning intent, he quietly and carefully whispers to Messire Sadik, "I think that man might be deaf or mute. He never said anything."

Perhaps Sadik, having had made a nice life for himself even with his impairment, has no sympathy for those with handicaps? Perhaps Sadik, hard of hearing, does not understand the low words of his auditor? Perhaps Sadik knows exactly what Emil said but being of such authority and respect, does not want there to be any evidence, whether stated in public or kept on document, of him making a mistake? Either way, Sadik raises his eyebrows and gives a half-hearted screech of, "Eh!" and dismisses the potentially embarrassing situation saying, "I did not know that. In that case, add one hour more to the pillory." And with a flourish, he alters and signs the sentence account and dismisses the concern. "Send in the next one."

* * *

Perhaps before continuing with the narrative, it would be best to entertain a random yet important thought. It is astonishing and curious how a place could look cheerful and inviting one day and on another it could be cold and menacing. After all, just last week, the Notre Dame Square was alive with a bright and festive spirit. Now the remains of the public feast are scattered about like the picked and pecked bones of a carcass. Shreds of ribbons, flags, and cloth, along with discarded crumbs of food, too moldy to salvage, litter the streets and shops; waiting for wind or rain to wash them away. Even so, another celebration, in someway the same and in someway different, is about to take place here once again.

If the courtroom is the gathering place of the scholars, then the pillory is said to be for the common populace. For after a grueling week of work, people love to spend their Sunday, after mass of course, caught in the blood and circus of public prosecution. So at noon when four guards are placed at the corners of the pillory in the Notre Dame Square, an eager crowd flocks with the hope of witnessing some kind of an execution- not a hanging or anything of the fatal sort, but perhaps a beating, or some sort of righteous violence to entertain them and reward them of their obedience and patience.

Coming from the Palais de Justice is the cart holding the victim of the hour, still bound and surrounded.

Ivan is led to and up the steep stairway and presented for the gathering crowd where he is met with laughter, howls, and insults. All of which mingle into a muffled roar, not loud enough to compete with the pounding of his heart and the blood rushing through his ears. The faces, all familiar and well etched into his memory, appear as smudges of paint as the hard and cold green eyes of his master stare into his.

Judge Kirkland sits under the shade of his viewing tent. His scowl, while there, is not nearly as intesne as it was last night; and for that Ivan is grateful. If the noble and high judge sees him going through his punishment, atoning for his failure, maybe Ivan will once again have his favour. It is the only hope that Ivan has and the only thing that will help him through.

_"You failed me, Ivan."_

Ivan clenches his jaw at the memory but otherwise he remains impassive. That is something that he wants to never hear again. "I will not fail." He tells himself.

_"I will not help you out of this mess you have gotten yourself into."_

Ivan is pushed to the main device of the pillory, a horizontal wheel of strong and solid wood. His ropes are replaced with chains. The metal manacles cut and chafe into the already raw flesh of his wrists as he is shackled to the wheel on his knees with his hands behind his back. His scarf his removed rather violently and he watches with a shudder as it falls before him. Without intending to, Ivan's muscles twitch and strain for his scarf. He knows that a scarf could not possibly save him from his judgement, but he is still overcome with the urge to obtain his one bit of real hope and happiness, just out of reach. And Ivan probably would have kept trying to reach for it, had it not been for his shirt being torn open. His broad torso laid bare for everyone to see.

Under the scorching gaze of his master, Ivan endures through the wild and cruel laughter. He tightens his jaw, grinding his jagged teeth as the people laugh viciously at his marked, scarred, and hairy back and shoulders. During the jeer and the humor, Ivan notices a man step up to the wheel. He only sees what he needs to see; the heavy boots and the trailing end of a braided, leather whip. Ivan tenses.

This man, a Dutch guard chosen to inflict the justice, raises an hourglass filled with red sand for all to see. He turns it over and sets it down, marking the official start of the punishment. With two heavy stomps, he signals to start the turning of the pillory wheel.

Ivan, too busy anticipating the fall of the whip, is not expecting the sudden movement. His shock breaks through his emotionless facade and the crowd, seeing the surprise on his ugly face, double their laughter.

"What an idiot!" Mathias, who just moments ago protested against being dragged away from his Lady Anita, is the loudest of them all. "Hahaha! The fun is about to begin!"

At a moment unexpected, Ivan feels the furious fall of the whip before he hears it.

_SNAP! CRACK!_

Ivan leaps in his chains. He writhes in pain and surprise and emits a throaty grunt; but other than that, he keeps silent.

Another strike follows the first, and then another, and then another, each falling into a steady, agonizing beat until Ivan loses count.

With each revolution of the pillory wheel, Ivan sees his scarf, his constant companion and comfort, stained and sprinkled with the splatter of his own blood. He can only imagine the red rivers flowing down his burning back. A different man would probably struggle pitifully, trying to escape but not Ivan. With each lash, he forces himself to stay silent and still as the laughter of the crowd and the words of his master ring loudly through his ears.

_"Consider that as punishment for your incompetence."_

The whip crashes a few more times before Ivan is given a moment of rest...but it is only for a moment. After half of the sand has fallen, the Dutch guard wipes his brow and hands over the whip, only to grab a cat o' tails made out of spindly strands of leather. Each of the nine tails has two knots of varying sizes tied in them designed to cut and drag into the skin.

Multiple _cracks_ are heard as the tails tear apart Ivan's already sore and tattered flesh. Despite his best attempt, a high and guttural scream rips out of Ivan's throat. His blood peppers the closer spectators as they cheer for more, _more_ , _more_! Again the cat strikes, and again, and again. By the time the last tail leaves, the first one falls again; never easing off of the searing and blood-soaked skin. This time, Ivan flexes and fights in his chains. His primal need to flee and hide, _hide_ , _hide_ , in the bell tower that he misses so much causes him the thrash like a desperate animal. More cracks! More screams! As the manacles creak and strain under this newfound force, they retaliate; cutting deeper into his wrist and now more blood pools under the iron.

More strikes, this time they are accompanied with a swift kick to his side. "Be still, _bell-ringer._ "

Out of air and out of energy, Ivan slumps in exhaustion.

More cracks! More pain! More blood!

But there is nothing he can do. So he sits with his head hanging low and his eyes closed, screaming and praying for relief above the cheers of Paris.

Caught up in the spectacle, neither the excited folk nor Ivan, notices the irony of it all. From afar, under his tent and away from any attention, Judge Kirkland is amused with the strange paradox; how just one week prior, in this festive spot, Ivan was praised as the fool king. People hailed his appearance, chanted his name, and sang of the happiness his mere presence brought them. Now those same fools who made him their mock king chastise him in the name of beautiful justice. Judge Kirkland smirks. "That ought to teach him."

* * *

Finally the last grain of sand drops. The spinning pillory stops and the guard leaves. Ivan, twitching and choking on air, is cleaned and treated with an ointment for his fresh lacerations. He remains shackled in place however, as the hourglass is turned over and the second hour of justice begins.

Now, forgive me for diverging from the narrative once more but there is another idea to reflect upon and unfortunately, it does not seem to really fit in anywhere. Already it has been stated that Ivan is different- ugly. And for that reason, he has been treated with hostility from the few people he has ever truly encountered (aside from the good judge, Minister Kirkland of course). Why this happens, is something of a mystery. Perhaps it is in mankind's nature to strive for conformity as much as for individuality, and because of Ivan's inability to even feign conformity, he is cast aside and treated as such? Or perhaps it has to do with the fact that Ivan has never been social, and so never forming a bond with anyone other than his master, he has no one to care for or consider him? Or perhaps the thought process of the people is that God would never make a person _that_ ugly, unless He has a reason to; unless their ugliness is actually a manifestation and a warning of their true character? Either way, for some inexplicable reason, the good people of Paris hate Ivan. Everyone one watching him sitting on that pillory believes themselves to have a just reason for their hate; and so they all take delight in watching and adding to his suffering.

So with the flogging over, and another hour to "teach that damned bell-ringer" a lesson, the crowd, drunk on fury and repulsed at his ugliness, take part in delivering their own special brand of justice.

"Face of the Devil!" hollers one woman.

"Son of a witch!" cries one man.

"What tragedy!" yells another. "A monster takes refuge in the house of God! The rest of your days should be spent on your knees at this very spot!"

"Violet-eyed monster!"

"Accursed bell-ringer!"

"Bringer of storms! Of plagues! Of bad crops! Burden on us all!"

"Ugly enough to make a woman miscarry!"

"Not even a mother could love that sort of face!"

And countless other insults are hurled at him. They pierce him like an arrow to a snared rabbit, but Ivan makes no noise. He does not stir. He only casts an unsteady glare about the crowd; one eye filled with spite, the other watering with sorrow.

"Oi! You think he's ugly now?" Mathias says to his fellow guards. "Watch this?" And he grabs a tomato, spoiling from a poor vendor nearby, and throws it at Ivan's head. Hitting him just above the eye, fruit and juice splash into Ivan's hair and drips down half of his face. "Now that's ugly! Hahaha!"

And with that comes even more insults, and more laughter, and more projectiles such as rotting food ( _no sense in wasting anything edible_ ) and rocks. As he undergoes the abuse, Ivan is not sure which part of him hurts more; his body or his spirit?

"Will you cast spells on us in your tower?" cries an old man. He lobs a rock in such a way that it bounces off of Ivan's back twice. "That will teach you to dabble in black magic!"

"I heard that he had hexed and tried to make off with a prostitute!" announces a short old woman. "Trying to add to your numbers? Trying to run amok with little hellspawns at your side? You should die!" and she pelts him with fruit.

"You jinxed my wife as she passed you, and now because of you, she has only birthed stillborn children!"

A rock to the shoulder.

"My best cow birthed a calf with two heads!"

A rock to his chest.

"You sent the storm that set my house on fire!"

A soaked and molding roll of bread to his side.

"You sent the sickness that took my son!"

A browning head of lettuce to his nose followed by a rock.

Such is the pattern as the sand slowly sinks to the bottom of the hourglass...


	9. Une Goutte d'Eau

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok! So that last chapter was pretty intense. You have my apologies if it was a bit too much and I don't want to ask if you enjoyed that chapter in particular (because that would be a little weird) but I do hope that you were able to connect in some way with it and hopefully you will find some levity within this chapter.
> 
> This chapter was originally written and posted on FFN in 2014. In it we start to tie back to the Disney version and the Kat With Shamrocks version but given the past few chapters, it isn't exactly the same.
> 
> WARNING! This chapter has a generous usage of the g slur. The chapter also feature dickhead!Mathias. Also while not as intense as the last chapter, Ivan is still carrying out his sentencing so it isn't all that pleasant.

_**Une Goutte d'Eau...** _

Lunch at the Oxenstierna house is simple yet hearty, but it does not last. Eventually, the food is eaten and goodbyes are given as the brothers leave.

Matthew is relieved when he sees the Petit Pont only a few steps away from the house. He smiles, happy to know both where he is and that home is not too far away. "Alright you two, allons-y."

"Wait! Where are you going?" Alfred jogs in front of and faces Matthew. He points in the direction ahead of himself- behind Matthew- saying, "The Île de la Cité is _that_ way."

"I know." Matthew calmly replies. "But home is _this_ way." Matthew gestures to the road ahead in a manner similar to that of a parent dealing with an inquisitive child. He threads his fingers between two hands, one belonging to Alfred, the other to Peter, and after a quiet, "Kuma come!" he continues to lead his brothers home.

"Goodbye Monsieur Berwald! Goodbye Madame Tinja! Goodbye!"

"Peter, they are already inside. I do not think that they can hear you."

"Should I shout then?"

"We cannot go home!" Alfred whines. "What will we do for food?"

"Alfred, we just ate."

"GOODBYE MONSIEUR BERWALD! GOODBYE-"

"Peter, what are you doing?!"

With eyes wide open, Peter stares at his eldest brother, completely naïve of Matthew's shock. "Well you said that they couldn't hear me..."

Matthew, cautious of his still tender injury, resists the urge to smack his hand against his head. "The things that come out of that boy's mouth..." he grumbles to himself. After taking a deep breath to calm himself, Matthew turns to Peter. "You already said 'goodbye', Peter. You do not need to keep saying it. Besides," Matthew looks behind to the Oxenstierna house standing in the distance. "Even if you do shout, I do not think that they can hear you from here."

"I know." Peter stares at Matthew's hand snugly clasping his own. Without putting any thought into it, he does as most children thoughtlessly do when their hands are held and begins to swing both his and Matthew's arms. "I like Berwald and Tinja though. I don't want them to forget me."

"I am sure that they won't. And dammit Alfred! What are you-"

"We cannot go home!" Alfred whines again. Relentlessly his arm pulls in the opposing direction. Stubbornly his feet scuffle on the ground, cold and slick with the remaining dew of morning. "I mean, we're not hungry now, but...what will we do later?"

A low groan rumbles within Matthew's throat. He mulls over Alfred's words, knowing that there is fear and a touch of truth to them; and though Matthew has never had a problem with missing a meal, he always made sure that his brothers ate whenever they could, even if it meant going hungry himself. A slight tugging sensation- one different from Alfred's- pulls him from his thoughts. He looks down to the hem- that old, tattered and dirty edging of his coat. It is strange. He has never particularly cared for it. Well, Alfred patches up the rips and tears that its main body has received over the years, but never has Matthew actually been troubled with thought of it being mistreated or in any ill-condition. Now however, concern grows within him as he sees Kumajirou biting into the hem, pulling in the same direction as Alfred, towards Petit Pont. He sighs. "Not you too, Kuma..." With exhaustion settling in earlier than usual, unsurprisingly, given the stress carried over from last night and the events of the day, he loses any will to fight and begrudgingly gives in to the demands of his brother and bear. "Allright...allright...you win. We will perform today. BUT-" he makes sure to add before anyone could say anything. "We will stop and go home when I say so, the two of you are to stay close by, and do not talk to strange men."

"Gah!" Alfred made a face at that. "Wh-why did you look at me when you said that last one!?"

"It was meant for both of you."

"Pfft! You are the worst at lying." Alfred says with a pout. "Besides, you were the one that went off on your own last night."

"I know, and I apologize." A moment passes in silence. Matthew suppresses a shudder as an infinity of "what ifs" race through his head. Any horrible thing could have happened last night to any of them...A small part of himself tells Matthew that any horrible thing could happen now. He brings his brothers closer and wraps his arms around them both, creating a world secret and safe for only them. With Peter's arms encircling around his legs and waist, and Alfred's head tucked under his own, he whispers with the same tender authority from the night before, "I promise to never leave you like that again."

* * *

The scene at the Notre Dame Square however is not as quiet or intimate. The shouts and the accusations of debauchery and sin have continued throughout the turning; voices neither growing nor diminishing in volume. Stones and rotting food still fly through the air; sometimes hitting their mark, occasionally missing it. And the sun beats down while the mild January air lashes on exposed flesh- particularly Ivan's.

Covered in bruises and blood- sticky and fresh from his ruptured wounds- Ivan stays as still as possible. Long since has he become numb to the insults. Whenever a rock hits him, he hardly moves, and he cannot make a sound for his voice has gone raw from his screams. Soundless and motionless, looking exactly like the dumb beast of burden he is, Ivan waits in his chains for the pillory to stop turning, for his release, and for his world to be limited to the bell tower and his stone carved friends again; but until then, he sits and turns and turns and turns...

As the crowd pushes and shoves one another- each one eager to get close to the monster, eager to punish for the transgressions that he most assuredly committed against them- the guards, the ones that are not reveling or joining in on the fun and justice of the small execution, push back in hopes of regaining order. They do so however, with hearts filled with concern for their own safety over anyone else's.

Oh come now! Do not tut-tut so! It is surprisingly- or perhaps unsurprisingly to those who are familiar with such things- dangerous to be in the "crowd suppressing" line of work. One simply has no hope when pitted against countless bodies. Even the horses whinny in fear and protest!

There is one horse though that remains as steady and devoted to duty just as his master. "Sir!" comes the loud and low voice of Captain Ludwig. "The second hour has ended." He says, with his eyes fixated on the large hourglass at the pillory; its sand unmoving unlike the device and the captive. Although Ludwig personally would not care if that creature were to suffer for all of eternity, the law is the law. And according to the law, once a man has been tried and carries out his sentence, he is free to continue with his life. So with concern only for upholding the law, Ludwig turns to Judge Kirkland and, as protocol demands, requests for permission to end the execution.

Judge Kirkland smirks, much in the way one would before capturing a flag or seizing a king. "In a moment, Captain."

Taken aback, Ludwig slightly lowers his brows. "Sir, allowing the execution to continue would-"

"If the people wish to dispense further justice, then who are we to stop them?" He calmly says. "At ease, Captain. Let us indulge them."

Something is not right. To Ivan, the world is no longer spinning. Instead it...twirls perhaps? It tilts one way before righting itself and tilting the other. And the faces don't change. They move of course; blinking, twitching, or maybe the mouth opening and closing as mouths usually do, but each face stands alone instead of blending into the next one.

This is when Ivan realizes that the pillory has stopped turning.

Though the turning has stopped, the stones have not. And while a different man might say to himself, "Perhaps the men turning below have gotten tired?", Ivan knows that he has been abandoned. Left to carry out his punishment for as long as he deserves it. He stirs and his bindings clank and creak somewhat louder than anyone to expected. The noise quiets the crowd, and they curiously look to see what he will do. With a voice rough and laced with anger and hate- at himself or the crowd I cannot say- he hollers. "Water!" This cry of distress, which could usually elicit sympathy only served to excite and amuse the good people of Paris.

Of course, had Ivan been more pitiable than repulsive, his plea could have been met with something other than more stones and jeers.

This time, with a voice more desperate than angry, he cries out again, "Water!"

Matthias, that honorable and respectable guard you might recall, unlike the rest of his armored brothers, is indeed moved by Ivan's call. So, motivated by it, he grabs a wineskin soaked and sopping with the red drink. "Drink this!" Through the air goes the liquor-filled sack, and as it hits Ivan's shoulder, wine sputters along his head, back, and neck; leaking into the ruptured wounds both new and old. "There you ugly villain! Enjoy your drink!"

And all began to laugh.

A silent scream rips itself from Ivan's throat, taking the air from his lungs with it. The only sound produced is a guttural cough as a spray of blood comes from his lips.  
But desperate and shamelessly persistent, Ivan miraculously manages to gasp out, "W-water...please."

At that moment a hush falls over the crowd.

Ivan looks up, curious to see what has soothed the angry people below him. His eye, irritated and nearly swollen, takes in the sight of feet before him. Sun-kissed feet, pink around the toes and the ankles; bare save for one lone golden bangle. His gaze travels upwards; past the skirt, past the hip scarf, past the flat chest concealed by only a blouse and cincher, up to-

For a moment Ivan is blinded by the bright _bright_ light surrounding the person's head. At first, he thinks that that an angel of mercy has been sent down to end his pain but then, the notices that the angel's halo is actually a crown of flowers...

familiar flowers...

and that there is a warm scent that can only be described as apples and pure earth coming from them...

Ivan gasps.

Both eyes wide open now, Ivan stares into that face. The very same face of the gypsy child that he tried to bring his master the night before. Those blue eyes that stared up in fear the night before are now looking down on him! There was no doubt within him regarding the boy's intentions. He had obviously come to wreck vengeance; to bestow upon his battered body another blow- a kick, perhaps a deluge of rocks, and maybe his brothers and their bear would join in. Ivan flinches when the boy steps closer to him and the boy- Alfred he remembers- flinches as well, looking ever much like a frightened child who is afraid of being bitten by a beast.

"Don't...don't be afraid." The boy says with a simple and sweet smile. He drops to his knees and unties his scarf from his hip. With kind hands and sweet-tempered movements, he uses said scarf to wipe Ivan's face clean. Then those same gracious hands detach a tambourine from the hip of his skirt, revealing a leather canteen tied to the frame- resting on the underside of the drumhead. Without speaking another word, Alfred brings the canteen, heavy with precious, life-sustaining water, to Ivan's miserable, dry lips.  
He drank. So quick and deep are his droughts; Ivan is sure that he would drown at such a rate! A pity though that so much is wasted. Water leaks from his eyes, from the canteen, from his mouth, but even so, the cool liquid soothes him as it flows down his cheeks, his chin, his neck, all the way to the dry and superficially cracked wood below.  
"I'm sorry." Alfred whispers. Such dear, secret words have never been granted to Ivan and truly, he felt as if he did not deserve them.

It truly is a touching spectacle as any romantic in the audience would say. To see this beautiful child hastening to the relief of a malevolent abomination surely would spark numerous gossip; but the tender moment did not last for long.

"You there!" Even though he is quite a distance away, Minister Kirkland manages to project his voice so that all felt as if he were standing right before them. He sneers and ever so slightly tilts his head back- appearing as if he were looking down from an unchallengeable height. "Get down from there this instant!"

"I will your honour, just as soon as I free this poor man." Alfred says as he ties his dirtied scarf back around his waist.

"I forbid it!" Arthur shouts. "This man is in the middle of his sentencing. Interfere and you shall suffer greatly for it."

Alfred pouts. His fists shake and his cheeks burn with righteous fury. Forgetting the words earlier stated by his brother, Alfred shouts. "This sentencing has gone on long enough!" Quicker than expected, Alfred grabs a spear from a guard nearby and plunges the head into a rusted chain link, twisting, pushing and pulling until both the metal and the spear gave way and broke.

It was only one link, but it was enough.

The chain, no longer secure, falls lifelessly to the wooden construct supporting Ivan. And Ivan too falls; shakily reaching for his scarf as he tries to get to his feet.

Shock erupts throughout the crowd, each face contorting as gasps ring out from their mouths. All are surprised at the display of the gypsy boy. That is, all except for Arthur.

He is livid.

"How dare you defy me, _gypsy_." He spits out.

"Shut it old man!" Alfred yells, near to tears. "How dare you call yourself a judge?! You who mistreated this man! You who mistreat my people! You who speaks of justice and yet deny it to those who are in most need of it!"

"Silence!" Arthur stands from his seat and steps partially in the light, looking far more menacing than he did in the shadows. "You have no right to speak or even stand here! Your rank is one lower than even a woman's!" Through clenched teeth, he violently hisses out, "Keep that fat mouth of yours sealed."

"Not until we have justice!"

Nostrils flaring...

Air coming out in short and hot puffs...

Eyes ablaze with anger...

Frustration brews within Arthur as he watches that rebellious slut wrap his arms around Ivan. This was not supposed to happen! And of course, it is not as if the good judge wants to hurt Ivan. He only wants to punish him. He needs to! How else is his soft-headed monster to learn? How else is the brat to atone for his failure? "This is all _his_ fault." Arthur whispers harshly. "Mark my words, _Alfred_ , you will pay for this insolence. Captain Ludwig, arrest him!" Before the snap of fingers could reach everyone's ears, before the guards (the alert ones) could surround the gypsy boy, a bright explosion of smoke fills the scaffold. Wisps of indigo and red swirl about; dazzling the eyes too far away and irritating the eyes too close. When the air clears everyone, Ivan, the guards, the audience, and even the good judge is astonished to see one less occupant on the scaffold. And while no doubt the same thought is transpiring in everybody's mind, only Arthur, wide-eyed and trembling, breathes it out. " _Witchcraft_!" He turns to his equally mystified captain and sternly issues out his orders. "Find him Captain and bring him to me alive."

"Yes sir." Ludwig repeats the command to his men, telling them to seal off the area and make sure not to harm the gypsy boy.

Ivan however is delirious. In good faith, I cannot say that the recent conversations escaped him for he did not listen to them in the first place. No, his senses ceased the moment, _he_ smiled at him. That moment was the world to Ivan- nothing else existed. And truthfully, Ivan would not have minded if his last breath was spent with his smiling Samaritan, but every daydreamer must come back to reality and just as the rolling storm clouds chase away the sun, Judge Kirkland's imposing air smothers Ivan's smile.

Arthur mounts his horse and trots over to Ivan, his unblinking eyes never leaving the other's.

"I'm sorry, Master." Ivan mumbles; his head bowed and hands wringing within his scarf. "I will never disappoint you again."

"You should not have done so in the first place." Arthur quickly retorts. He sighs and massages away the tension developing in his brow. "Now do you see why you must never leave your bell tower?"

Ivan nods in the affirmative.

"I do these things because I care for you, Ivan. I wish you understood that." Arthur says.

Feeling even more guilt, Ivan bows his head lower. He is too ashamed to look at anything other than his feet.

"Away with you lad. I have other matters that must be seen to."

Cold rain begins to fall as Ivan limps to Notre Dame. No one bothers to get in his way, whether that is due to the storm or because he is loose, he does not know but he is grateful either way. Up the stone steps he marches, feeling an odd mixture of comfort and dread. He smiles a tired smile to himself once inside, but as he closes the door to that horrid world of pain and humiliation, he cannot help but feel as if he is closing his own casket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank everyone who has taken the time to read this chapter. I'd also like to give a huge THANK YOU to everyone who has bookmarked, given kudos, and/or commented. Given my working situation right now, I don't get to work on this as much as I like but I have not given up on this fic. Seeing you guys enjoy it really is encouraging and I want you all to know that I truly do appreciate your involvement.
> 
> Stay safe everyone.


	10. Asylum for the Children of Notre Dame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally written and posted on FFN in 2014. When I first wrote this chapter, I remember that it went on longer than I was expecting and I ended up cutting it into two chapters- this one and the next one. I don't think I had any problems with this chapter. I might have rushed when wrapping things up but I don't think it was anything too significant.
> 
> This chapter is definitely more inspired by both the Disney version and by Kat With Shamrocks. I'm a little bit sad that I couldn't use more of Kevin Kline's lines but they don't really fit Ludwig's character lol

_**Asylum for the Children of Notre Dame...** _

A flash of gold...

A flutter of fabric...

From the corner of his eye, Captain Ludwig observes a peculiar looking figure. A staggering, hunched over, hooded beggar cloaked in patched wool, wobbling into the doors of Notre Dame. To most people this would be rather inconspicuous; after all it is raining and the cathedral is perhaps the safest and closest shelter. But where most people see a crippled old man trying to get out of the rain, Captain Ludwig sees a very familiar looking coat and a possible lead to his fugitive.

With a smirk and a sigh, Captain Ludwig dismounts his horse and follows after the "beggar man"...

Wheeze, step, huff.

Wheeze, step, huff.

Matthew's straining muscles hold Alfred, Peter, and Kumajirou upon his back as he shakily walks up the steps to...that big place the Parisians go to worship their god. Of course Matthew has never been inside before, and he cannot honestly say that he knows anyone who has, but he does know that the place is big- very big- and close by. A perfect place to hide.

Wheeze, step, huff.

Wheeze, step, huff.

Wheeze, step, "Ah!"

Barely a step inside and Matthew stumbles and falls face first onto the floor. From beneath his coat, Alfred and Peter come tumbling out. Kumajirou rolls lazily. Peter is the first one up and he rushes to close the door.

Alfred is the next one to get up and after a hasty rubbing of his eyes, he puffs out his cheeks and directs an irritated pout to his older brother. "What was that about, Mattie?!" he whines. He rubs again; his eyes bleary from the smoke screen he just came from. "You need to warn people when you do things like that! I mean, my mouth was open! My eyes were open! And smoke was everywhere! Agh!"

Matthew, still on the floor, lifts his face up, throwing his coat off. "Me? What about _you_?! What was _that_ about?!"

"...What?"

Matthew stares blankly at his poor oblivious brother. Had his forehead and nose not been aching, he probably would have slammed his face onto the floor once more. Instead, he stands and takes off his glasses and looks them over for any new scratches. " _'What?'_ he says..." Matthew shakes his head and takes several deep _DEEP_ breathes before even attempting to answer such a question. As he opens his mouth however, he notices a creeping shadow of some sort in the reflection of his spectacles and immediately-

_**KLA-SHINK!** _

Alfred gasps as Matthew pulls a guard out from behind a column and throws the sneaking bastard to the floor, making sure to grab said guard's sword as he falls. "You!" Matthew snarls out.

Ludwig clatters along the black and white chess board floor tiles; rattling within his bulky suit of armor. "Hallo." He groans out.

"What are you doing here?!" Matthew advances with the sword. Although he has no training in regards to effectively using it, even in his unexperienced hands, they all know just how dangerous the weapon can be.

Ludwig awkwardly scrambles backwards. "I can explain everything!" he stammers out while backing into another column. "But first, calm down and give me a chance to apologize."

"For what?" Matthew immediately regrets asking after the guard's kicks a foot into his stomach. The impact forcing him to topple over. The unexpectedness of it all makes him lose his grip on the sword's hilt, leaving it to be snatched up by its' original master. Alfred rushes to help his brother up as Matthew glares at the guard, wishing the bastard would burst into flames. "You son of a-"

"Watch what you say!" the guard interrupted with. "We are in a church."

Just as Matthew is getting to his feet, Alfred drops him and gasps out, "Peter no!"

Ludwig turns just in time to parry the little boys candle holder, preventing it from colliding with his skull. The grating sound of blade against metal echoes within the grand hall as poor little Peter topples just as his brother before.

"I forgot about the kid." Ludwig sighs. He furrows his brows as he tries to remember who the fourth member of their- "Oof!" In agony he groans and clutches at his abdomen realizing that the bear cub, head-butted him. Said cub now growling and crouched; paws spread out in a defensive position.

Peter wisely uses the distraction to run to his brothers' side. Matthew reaches out for another candle holder, but Alfred steps between his brothers and the recovering guard. "A-are you going to arrest us?" He asks while nervously worrying his bottom lip.

Matthew and Peter could have face-palmed at the ridiculous question.

"No." Ludwig answers as he sheaths his sword. "As long as you are in here," he gestures to the sanctified walls and columns and windows and pews surrounding them. "I cannot."

Alfred releases a long and slow breath. He smiles. "I knew you would not be like the other guards!" With stars and candle light shining brightly in his eyes, he beams at his brothers. "This is the hero- I mean, guard that I told you about! This is Captain Beilschmidt."

"Ludwig!" Captain Beilschmidt quickly says. He coughs to quickly cover the crack of his voice and the light rose dusting of his cheeks. "Please call me Ludwig. It means 'famed warrior'."

Alfred smiles even wider and brighter at his hero as Matthew and Peter share a look of apathy.

"And you are?"

"I-"

"Is this an interrogation?" Matthew pulls Alfred away from this strange man and crosses his arms. He does his best to silently communicate that the guard is neither wanted nor welcome around them, but it is hard to do so knowing that Alfred is fawning over this so-called hero.

"Most people would call this an introduction."

"See!" Alfred says while shaking Matthew's arm. "I told you, he isn't like the other guards."

Matthew removes his brother's hands, refusing to let his guard down. "If you are not going to arrest us, then what do you want."

Ludwig steps forward. "I would settle for your name." He says as he smoothly takes Alfred's hand into his own, not knowing that he had taken the boy's breath along with it.

Matthew rolls his eyes and Peter gags at the sight of another man hitting on his brother.

"I..I'm Alfred." The teenager whispers. "These are my brothers, Matthew and Peter." For a second time, the somewhat forgotten bear cub slams into the Ludwig's breastplate. "Oh! And this is Kumajirou." Alfred says, thankful for Matthew's gift of quietness. It would have been rather embarrassing for his hero to hear the, "Good boy, Kuma!" from his older brother. Alfred tries to laugh off that attack, saying, "He doesn't take kindly to guards."

"I noticed." Ludwig groans out. "I also noticed that you are quite beautiful- dancing that is!" Ludwig's entire face and neck heats to a scarlet hue as he realizes what just spilled from his mouth. "You are a beautiful dancer- I mean...you dance beautifully."

Matthew could vomit.

He could seriously vomit.

Bile and whatever little was left in his stomach could literally spew from Matthew's lips at that very moment. And when Matthew looks over to Peter, he sees that the boy was not far from doing just that as they were forced to witness Ludwig horrendously attempt at flirting with their brother.

But before either one could make such a mess (or worse, before another awkward moment could happen between the guard and the dancer) the doors burst open with such a force that it is amazing that the hinges hold. "Good work Captain." Minister Kirkland strides inside, head held high as he looks down on the gypsy vermin mucking up Notre Dame's hallowed grounds with their mere presence. "Now," he says while pointing a slender and pale finger at scared looking teenager. "Arrest him!"

Matthew, knowing that the guard could not be trusted- "He is just like the rest of them!"- pulls Alfred away and stands as a shield in front of his younger, foolish brother. "You tricked us..." All of the time that could have been spent hiding or finding one secret way or another out was instead wasted on this golden armored ass.

Ludwig reaches forward for Alfred's hand once more- only to hold it- but the brother, the one called Matthew deters him. "Claim sanctuary." He hoarsely whispers.

"Don't listen to him!" Matthew hisses.

"Please," Ludwig tries again. "Trust me and claim sanctuary."

"No!" Peter shrieks. "You lied to us! I should have killed you when I had the chance!"

"S-sanctuary..." Alfred softly says. With hands trembling at the same rate of his voice, he holds back his baby brother, preventing him from lunging at the guard. Alfred doesn't know what sanctuary means, but given that neither he nor his brothers have been beaten or arrested, he knows that his trust in Ludwig could not have been misplaced.

Ludwig sighs in relief.

"I'm waiting, Captain..."

"He has claimed sanctuary, Sir." Ludwig does an about-face and stands respectfully at attention to his superior. "There is nothing we can do."

Minister Kirkland huffs and scowls. Does that harlot honestly think sanctuary is afforded to him? Who does that bitch think he is?! "Then drag him outside and-"

"You will do no such thing!" Suddenly the sound of angry stomps was heard. It is as if Notre Dame herself is shaking with righteous rage. Father Lovino marches to the group and steps between Minister Kirkland and the uncertain brothers. While Father Feliciano is soft, round, and looking wiser with time, Father Lovino is tall, tawny, and tough; always looking like he would prefer to exchange blows rather than words. "Have your years as an official made you forget to respect the sanctity and sovereignty of the Church?!"

Minister Kirkland scoffs. "I have nothing but respect for God and the Law! Which is precisely why I need to have this pagan filth dragged out."

"God is not partial to any face." Father Romano says. Being of the cloth, his position is higher than that of any official, especially within Notre Dame. "HE has never turned anyone away, and we do our best to follow his example. Remember that we are all the children of God in here."

Arthur glares at the priest but knowing that he has not the higher power here, he turns to leave. He directs his men out but takes shelter in the shadows and waits. If he could not get the boy now, he could at least deliver him a message.

"Chigi!" Father Lovino snorts out. He, non to gently, clamps onto Ludwig's arm and drags him out as well. "I believe you have other matters to attend to, Captain Bastard." If he notices Peter and Kumajirou tagging along to kick at the guards legs and backside (and he most likely does) he does nothing to stop them, leaving Matthew to chase after the two and leaving Alfred alone and in the open.

Arthur uses this opportunity- one which could have only come from God- to sneak up behind the boy and pull him to the shadowed side of a column. Alfred struggles of course; flailing about and even kicking at him a few times, and even tries to shout. But Arthur, cunning and determined, throws the boy against the column. He licks his lips at the sight of the squirming whore laying back against the strong and erect column. He places his hands on either side of Alfred's head and leans in close, effectively pinning him in place. "You think you have outwitted me?" he purrs. "You think that you are free from my justice? Well bask not just yet Alfred~" He feels the boy shiver against him and just knows that the little tramp is enjoying it. Disgusting little temptress! "I am a very patient man, Alfred~ all I need to do is bide my time. You and I both know that gypsies don't do well inside stone walls." He leaned in closer, leaning down a little to press his nose and lips into the surprisingly soft hairs upon the boy's head. The scent of apples, no doubt from his crown of flowers, must have seeped into his hair and skin throughout the years. For Alfred, delectable and temptations Alfred, smells very much like the blossoms. And really, is that not what the boy is: a succulent blossom ripening to perfection and just begging to be plucked by Arthur. He places one hand on the skin of the boys chest, the crook between his thumb and index placed just below the neck. He tenses as the boy squeaks of course in pleasure. He really ought to just wring the filthy slut's neck! His other hand ghosts over the boy's hip; slowly going lower and lower. With each moment of decent, his hand presses down a little more, rubbing at the skirt to find the flesh beneath. Just as his hand glides to the boy's inner thigh-

"No!" Alfred pushes Minister Kirkland away. Matthew has warned him of men and moments like this...

Arthur huffs. How dare that little tease excite him and then push him away! "There is a demon within you. One that speaks through your legs!"

"N-no..." Alfred remembers Matthew's warning. Just barely over a week ago they were sitting in the tent provided for them during the festival, and instead of the scolding Alfred was sure that he would receive, Matthew told him of the dangers of men both young and old; of the compromising situations they might try to force him into. He knows that he should fight or run, screaming if need be, until he knows for certain that he is safe. But try as he might, Alfred could not move at the moment. He could barely even speak; mind and body both paralyzed in fear.

At least last night he only had to deal with a wrathful spirit! And while those were scary, _scary_ , _scary_ , they usually were easy to avoid- do no wrong to them and they will do no wrong to you...usually.

But Minister Kirkland...Alfred knows almost nothing of him, only that he is a man of high power with many if not all guards under his command. And while Alfred would like to think that the Minister of Justice is only a bitter and cold, old fool- while he would like to think that the old judge could become a better person if only he were to spend one day in another's shoes and perhaps listen to the concern's of people who cannot afford a political voice- while he would like to think that Minister Kirkland is not nearly as bad as everyone says, there is something about the judge...

Something about those vibrant green eyes that said otherwise...

And this terrifies him...

Arthur watches Alfred back himself to the column again; his limbs shaking, his face flushing, and his teeth chewing on his bottom lip. Probably trying to stifle his wanton moans. That trollop! Arthur chuckles. "I am a patient man..." he whispers both to himself and Alfred. "You have chosen a marvelous prison," he says while striding away. "But it is still a prison non-the-less. Step one foot out, and you will be mine."

Alfred waits until he hears the slam of the large doors before giving in to his weakening knees and falling to the floor. He pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around himself, not knowing whether he should scream, cry, stab someone or vomit after...whatever that was.

"Maple!" Matthew huffs out upon his return. "Guards have been posted at every window and door outside. They might not be able to touch us in here but they sure are-...Hey, what happened?" Matthew sinks to the floor and puts an arm around Alfred. "Alfie?"

"I..." Alfred did mean to tell Matthew what just transpired between himself and the judge. "I'm sorry...about...everything." But he decides not to. After all, he is not even entirely sure of what happened. Did something even happen? Or was he just being too sensitive? Maybe it was nothing? Or maybe that is the sort of thing that ought to happen to people who break the law? Maybe he deserved it...whatever it was? Does it even have a name? And besides whatever you are supposed to call it is far too shameful for him to even consider telling anyone else- especially his older brother of all people! "This is all my fault," he says. "I'm the one he- they want. None of us would be here were it not for me."

Matthew sighs. "Alfie, do not punish yourself for this."

"I just thought that if one person would stand up to him then..."

"I know..."

"Chigi!" The brothers turn to see Father Lovino righting and lighting one of the candle holders...the one Peter used to almost bludgeon Ludwig. "I saw what happened out there. You caused quite the ruckus! Just...stay here for now." Father Lovino takes a deep breath to calm himself and grumbles about the "crazy bastards" disturbing his Sunday. "You broke no law, Minister Kirkland just does not like to have his authority questioned- especially by gypsies. This will all be over soon though...Maybe in a day or two." He then lowly grumbles about "eyebrow bastard" needing to eat a big serving of humble pasta. "We have beds, reserved for the weary and needy, you may use them if you want, but first..." He directs the brothers' attention to the smaller members of their family standing just beyond the doors, taunting, insulting, and even threatening the guards posted outside. "Collect those two and bring them in. We cannot give eyebrow bastard another reason to be vindictive."

"Oh maple! Thank you." Matthew mutters before running off to do just so.

Alfred however, riled up at the injustices suffered today; especially suffered by that poor man they were torturing- leaps from his spot on the floor. "What does he- do they have against people who are different anyway?"

"Chigi! How should I know?!" Throughout his many years on God's earth, his many years in this city, Father Lovino has seen and heard some rather disheartening things and a lesson he has learnt very early on is that people, while fundamentally very close, are still quite far from salvation. "You cannot right all of the wrongs in this world on your own, you know." He says sullenly. "Even the help of your brothers will never be enough."

Alfred puffs out his cheeks and pouts; looking very much like the child everyone else sees in him. "Well nobody out there is going to help me!"

Father Lovino, in a very rare moment, chuckles. He has heard those very same words countless times. And just as countless times before, he gives the best advice he can. "Maybe there is someone in here who will." With that being said- that small seed of truth being tossed to what he hopes is fine soil, he leaves knowing that the work is done. Everything else is up to Him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank everyone who has taken the time to read this fic, and I'd like to give an even bigger thank you to those who have bookmarked, left kudos, and/or commented


	11. God Help the Outcasts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally written and posted on FFN in 2014. Alfred is a tad OOC in the beginning but he's still in shock from the harassment/assault from the previous chapter.
> 
> So I just realized that the notes for chapter one were appearing at the end of every chapter. lol. Sorry about that but I think I fixed it.

_**God Help the Outcasts...** _

"Well nobody out there is going to help me!"

"Maybe there is someone in here who will..."

...

...

...

Notre Dame...the house of the Christian God...the god that Alfred knows of yet knows nothing about...

Alfred knows of the spirits both benevolent and mischievous, but of actual gods...

Such knowledge has been lost to he and his family for generations.

Alfred remembers the stories his mother would tell him of divine creatures who came to earth as avatara to help mankind; they are the same stories that he tells Peter during long listless hours of day and restless nights. But life amongst the Parisians has made him forget about the original names, faces, and most of the traditions of the gods of his family in order to make room for their perplexing god. Their god whose name no one speaks of, and whose teachings Alfred himself does not know...

There is only one story from the Christian God that Alfred knows of, and even then, it is more of the details that he is familiar with than the actual story or its significance. Also, it is only due to the fact that this story is somehow so very important, that the people of Paris feel motivated to talk often about it. It is that story of a god amongst men, who left the heavens to be born on earth so that he might help mankind. It is a story that has stuck with Alfred despite his ignorance because it seemed so much like the stories his mother would tell him and a part of him has always wondered if this new god could possibly be the same one his family worshiped.

But what is truly baffling however is that this god was known for having no riches, for healing the sick, helping those in distress, and even without sacrifice, waking loved ones from death; death, a concept that while mighty and absolute to people, was so inconsequential to Him, that he belittled it and called it mere slumber! This same god that seems truly a hero, forever selfless, wise, and kind, is now said to favor the wealthy, the very people that are absent in the story and their details recited countless times.

It is odd to him of course, but then again...

Alfred knows very little, almost nothing of this god; but as he looks at the worshipers on the other side of this place- the house of the Christian God, Notre Dame- on the floor in their fine clothes made of exotic fabrics and dyed such wonderful colors, in their jewelry and ornaments that they usually do well to keep hidden from the eyes of the poor for fear of theft...These people who with their presence let all know that they are above all, that they are the ones superior, are actually on the ground- humble and subservient before their god.

If there exists such a god who could work such a miracle, then He truly might be one worthy of respect. He truly might be a hero.

Alfred walks not to the pews where the whispered prayers commence, but to a dark corner of Notre Dame. To a place where someone ignorant such as himself could feel the least amount of shame. After all, he does not even know this god's name- he knows NO gods' name- and yet he is to ask of...of...help?

With?...

Alfred sighs.

And then he cries.

Soft gasps, not even sobs, at first and then tears swollen with an inexplicable sadness flow from him. He rubs his eyes and cheeks and nose raw and red and yet, he could neither wash nor rub the shame from his face.

And how dare he? How dare he cry? How dare he attempt to approach this hero god of miracles with neither a name nor an offering? It is worse than sad really. It truly is pathetic!

...

He is pathetic...

So pathetic in fact, that Alfred blindly walks further and further into the dark dark corner without even the faintest of sun or candlelight. Farther and father until, "Ah!"  
Alfred scurries out of the little alcove he has unintentionally stumbled into and presses himself against the corner joining the inner and outer wall.

There in that alcove, all alone in the dark stands a statue of the hero god himself. But instead of in fine robes and covered from head to toe in precious stones and metals, He stands nearly naked. The only ornaments He has are small but horrible looking devices impaled into the flesh and bones of his hands and feet, keeping him pinned to a cross. Upon His head is not a crown of stars and divine light but one of thistles and thorns.

It is not however the gore and horror that terrify Alfred, rather it is the face...His face. It holds no power, no glory, and no divinity for it is stained forever with His blood and tears. Also captured upon His face is sadness and anguish far too real for an object bearing no breath or life. And yet despite the torment this hero god is forever sculpted in, there still exists a kindness in His eyes. One that draws Alfred from he wall and deeper into the shadows and erases the fear and agony and self-pity of before.

Alfred unwaveringly steps closer to the statue, too awed and ignorant to bow his head. _"I don't know if you can hear me...or if you're even there. And I don't know if you would listen to a gypsy's prayer..._ " Alfred reaches his hand out to the god's face, but stops, hesitates and then brings his hand back down to his side. Ashamed once more, he feels the need to avert his eyes for a moment. " _Yes I know I'm just an outcast- I shouldn't speak to you. But still I see your face and wonder..."_

And in that moment, Alfred wishes whole-heartedly that he were tall enough, and clean enough, and overall good enough to wipe the fluids from this miracle god's face. _"Were you once an outcast too?"_

Unbeknownst to Alfred, there are another set of eyes- a pair that has had more than enough misery and little to no life shining in them- watching him during his moment in the alcove. Those same eyes now following him down a candlelit path heading towards the votives.

_God help the outcasts, hungry from birth  
Show them the mercy they don't find on Earth  
God help my people, we look to you still  
God help the outcasts or nobody will_

Alfred walks past the votives crowded with people crying out for more suitable graces; for blessings, for wealth, power and glory, for love that could be cultivated and controlled, and even for woes to be tossed upon others as some sort of rebuke whether personal or professional.

Alfred, ignorant and depraved fool he is, pays no attention to the proper prayers being given. Instead, he continues his clumsy and rather informal orison.

_I ask for nothing, I can get by  
But I know so many less lucky than I  
Please help my people- the poor and downtrod  
I thought we all were the children of God_

Alfred's voice trails off yet his feet carry him to the atrium of Notre Dame; to the afternoon glow shining from Her Eye. He thinks of Matthew- how clever he is! How he can read and even write a little! Yet Matthew never uses such brilliance against himself and Peter. He thinks of Peter, chaotic as he can be, he still always tries his best. Alfred knows that as long as he has his brothers- and Kumajirou too- that everything will be fine. But he also knows that there are many suffering alone and in this moment, under the gaze of the holy protector, Notre Dame, he pleads for the souls that cannot speak for themselves. And all the while another's eye looks on.

_God help the outcasts  
Chirldren of God_

And indeed prayer is quite an outlandish concept when one truly thinks it through. The idea of speaking to a person whose face is never seen, whose body is always out of the vicinity, and whose voice, in most experiences, is never heard, is rather absurd. Even to those who have been bowing their heads long before they could remember. And so Alfred, now out of the dark, away from the proper people of Paris, stands alone within the golden light shining from the heavens. Like many people whether new or already initiated into religion, waits for an answer; a sign of some sort to know that he has at least been heard.

And maybe he has, and maybe he has not, but the gentle nudge at the spot just behind his knee is more than enough for Alfred.

Maybe sometimes God is in a cathedral...

Maybe sometimes God is in the curled hairs of a polar bear cub...

Maybe sometimes God is in a hug...

"You there, bell-ringer! What are you doing down here?!" Booms the voice of an infuriated parishioner.

Alfred looks up to see the very same man from the pillory. That poor man that had been crying out for just a bit of kindness, now cleaned up, in fresh clothes, and looking all too familiar...

"Have you need to cause more trouble?!" comes the voice in fortissimo once more. "Get away and go back where you belong, before we send for the guards!"

The man, the one that Alfred is certain he has seen before this day, frightened from the sudden attention and hostility scrambles backwards in a desperate endeavor to get away. His feet, unsure of their direction and acting more so on instinct than on reason twist and tangle themselves together, causing him to trip and tumble backwards, knocking over an unfortunate candle holder. Which, as one would expect when they have made quite an uproar, attracts even more unwanted attention! Undoubtedly embarrassed, the man picks himself up and runs madly to the shadowed and seldom used northern stairwell; making sure, of course, to keep his face hidden as best as he can.

"H-hey, wait!" Alfred picks himself up, and chases after the figure. "Slow down! I want to talk to you!" He calls out, loud voice echoing throughout the narrow stairway. As the chase continues, the irony of the situation escapes both the dancer and the deformed recluse. How just the night before, the same two were characters of a similar pursuit. The thought does not occur to either one of them as Ivan unintentionally leads Alfred across the second floor open air walkway.

Alfred follows without much thought concerning his unfamiliar surroundings. He lifts his skirt in hopes that the extra room granted to his legs will allow him to run faster or perhaps take longer strides. And maybe it is because of his clothing compensation or maybe it is because of that man's limping- the more plausible reason- Alfred steadily closes the distance between himself and large man ahead. "Please wait!" Alfred calls out again as the man ducks into a door. Alfred reaches out for the handle when suddenly hands grab onto him. He freezes and tenses in this unexpected hold as terror rushes through him; as the faint bruises sustained earlier flare in pain. He shivers as phantom hands roam over his body and the feeling of being too close- of being walled in- invades him. His mind so far gone, that when he is spun around, he squeaks in fear. His eyes looking up and expecting a sour green of sorcery.

"...red?.."

Alfred's knees buckle.

"...lfred?.."

His eyes maniacally dart back and forth from eye to eye, seeing and yet not.

"Alfred?!"

He finally snaps out of his fear-induced trance, realizing that the eyes before him are not green but instead an indigo colour unique to only one person. "Oh Mattie! Tis you!" He says with a carefree smile. "What are you doing? And why are you shaking?"

Every part of Matthew's being tenses and twitches and spasms with stress and frustration. Even his smile, usually soft and small takes on a crazed, dare to say, menacing appearance as his lips curl and jolt about. "What-I-You-Why..." he huffs out with exasperation. When the urge to rattle his simple-minded brother surfaces, he hotly steps away, pacing the way parents and children alike do when the other refuses to listen. After several strides Matthew turns back around, eyes hardened and arms crossed. "Alfred," he calls out cooly. "Do you remember what we discussed earlier?"

Alfred's face heats up. His ears ring as words from a rather embarrassing discussion haunt him. "E-earlier?"

Mathew never notices the tears glossing over in his brother's eyes. "Yes, earlier. Today, round noontime, but a few moments after giving our farewells to the Oxensternia's..."

"Oh...that."

"' _Oh that_ ', he says." Matthew sighs. "Yes that! I believe I told you to stay close by and to not talk to strange men."

"And I believe," Alfred says with a touch of childish mimicry, "That you said that was meant for both me and Peter!"

"Even you know that was meant more so for you."

"Tis not like I ran away from you or something!"

"You did not listen to me."

"Besides I didn't go looking for trouble!"

"You never listen to me."

"And did you just call me dumb?"

"I turned around and you weren't there."

"And I was coming right back, I just-"

"I TURNED AROUND AND YOU WEREN'T THERE!"

The fact that Matthew was towering over him did not register to Alfred. He never felt the vice grip of the larger yet just as malnourished hands clamping upon his arms. He did not feel small or vulnerable as many would in such a position; but as he stared into indigo irises that he has always looked up to, that have always watched over him, Alfred did experience a shred of the worry and exhaustion churning in his elder brother.

"Mattie..." Alfred lifts one hand to Matthew's face, ready to wipe away any tears should they fall.

Matthew never gives him the chance, choosing instead to turn away and scrub at his face savagely. After all, the man of the house is not one to cry under such circumstances. "You were on the pillory..."

"I...No one dragged me up or strapped me down. I went up there myself."

"You were on the pillory." Matthew chokes out. "And I never want to see you up there again."

"Mattie, I...We will figure something out." Alfred reaches out for his big brother's hand. Finally realizing that the chaos of both yesterday and today are taking their toll, he gives Matthew's hand a firm squeeze. "Together...you don't have to carry all of the burdens alone you know."

Without needing to say anything, the two wrap their arms around each other; holding one another as the world tears away at them.

The moment of sweet solace however is interrupted by the youngest of the brothers, carelessly making his way to the door to the misshapen man recognized before. "I know you're in there, you dummy." He says after rapping upon the door as hard as his still growing fist could manage. "No free peeks! Pay up!"

**_"Peter!"_ **

* * *

Alone.

Finally alone and safe within the strong and silent stone room, Ivan leans against his now bolted door; one hand over his excited and exhausted heart. "That...had been close." he gasps out between gulps of breath. "Too close..."

" _Don't be afraid_." Ivan convulses as the voice that has never fully dropped kisses his ear. " _See, everything is perfect_." He rakes his fingers through his hair, gripping and twisting and pulling in a mad attempt to release that false honey from his head. " _I'm sorry_."

Ivan sighs.

Perhaps he should go out. He believes whole heartedly that sweet and kind Alfred could never deliver him harm.

Not intentionally that is.

After all, he was at the boy's mercy but mere moments ago, yet not a single blow did he deliver. No punches, no kicks, no slaps, no insults, no curses, not even a foul-tempered glare came upon him despite its deserving. And really, is there a reason to run and hide from his angel of mercy?

"I know you're in there, you dummy."

Ivan sighs again, feeling too tired to grumble.

"No free peeks! Pay up!"

_**"Peter!"** _

Of course, how could he forget! There are actually three reasons to keep his door bolted shut. Three reasons to keep everyone out.

" _Welcome back, Ivan._ "

And there are three reasons for him to stay. Ivan smiles at his faithful friends. "Hello Toris. It is good to be back."

" _You've been gone for like ever._ " Feliks says delightfully. " _You did not leave a message or even like tell us you were heading out or when you would be coming back! That is, if you were like coming back. You must have been like having an uber fun time._ "

Ivan stares at the greyed and chipped floor boards. His eyes narrow into sword-sharp slits. "No! It was not fun."

Gilbert guffaws. " _You sneak off while we are sleeping, stay out all night and the next day. Today is over for the most part too you arschlocke! And you bring a chick back with you! That sounds like the best party ever! And you had the nerve to not invite us?!_ " Gilbert scoffs. _"I mean Toris, I can understand, but the awesome me! Or even Feliks!"_

"Alk-!" Ivan chokes and sputters on the words lodged in his throat; a fervent explanation demanding to be released. "Alfred is not a woman! H-he is...a boy." Ivan tucks his chin and mouth into his scarf and begins to twiddle at it.

" _Pfft!_ " Gilbert waves his hand in dismissal. " _A skirt is a skirt. That cute little birdie might not have a rack, but he more than makes up for it with that nice big_ -"

" _If you were not out with new friends,_ " Toris thankfully interrupted. " _Then where were you Ivan? And what was all that ruckus outside_."

Ivan turns away, too ashamed to look into his friends' unblinking eyes. "You...you saw that?"

" _Like, we don't have any feet, so..._ "

" _What Feliks is attempting to say,_ " Toris interjected. " _Is that we were not able to see anything but we did hear much noise. Nothing clear, but a great amount of it._ "

"I..." Ivan's fidgeting has escalated; his face an even deeper shade than his scarf. "I do not wish to talk of it."

The gargoyles exchanged glances. Each face sculpted with both worry and understanding.

" _You do not have to if you-_ "

" _If you like, do not want to_."

 _"We're not exactly going anywhere though, dummkopf._ "

Ivan goes back to his door. It would be best to unbolt it for now. After all, his master would be most upset to find that he had been denied permission to enter, should he come to visit tonight. Against his better judgement though, Ivan opens the door- only a sliver- letting in one of the last lights of day. He watches the strange family leave him quietly and in peace. As he does so an odd feeling, one whose name he could not recall blossoms into his heart. "Thank you." He whispers gently and then closes his door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading and for the kudos bookmarks and comments!


	12. As Long As There's A Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally written and posted on FFN in 2015. And in February! During the Month of Love!
> 
> Just so there's no confusion, Carlotta, Josephine, and Margaret are nobody. They're not Hetalia characters and they're not very important so don't get too attached. Tobias is New Zealand and Mychelle is Seychelles.
> 
> The song used in this chapter is As Long As There's A Moon (hence the chapter title) It's a deleted song from the Disney film and as much as I love it, I understand why it was cut. I was also inspired by the novel.

_**As Long As There's a Moon...** _

Ah, Monday...tis the kind of day that is truly dedicated to labor. Either enthusiastically or begrudgingly, people awake just a little earlier- well rested after observing the Lord's Day- and put away the joys and woes of yester-week to make room for more. With much work in need of doing, Notre Dame is usually a terribly lonesome place on Mondays; perfect for Noble Ladies to conduct their confessions and prayers.

"Ave Maria, I humbly come to you to ask-"

A throat clears.

Lady Anita caught off guard, pauses for a moment. Her jaw tensing and brow dropping before going back into relaxed temperance. "-to ask your-"

"Bonjour fairest Anita!"

Lady Anita opens her eyes; her habitually blank irises darkened with exasperation.

"I see I have caught you in a moment of penance. Do tell me how is it that such a reverent creature as thineself has yet to be betrothed?"

"It would serve you well to know that Godly-fear is a trait desirable in men as well as women, good sir." Lady Anita says while arising. Her prayer tainted and her mood spoiled, she knew it best to address God when her spirit settles once more. She turns to face the knight and if she notices the point of her hennin slapping Mathias's cheek, she offers no apology. "I suppose you were sent to me as an escort."

"You can thank your brother for that!" Mathias says while rubbing his cheek with a winning smile. "He was the one to point out that my services are better spent protecting you silly little women than merely standing guard at the courthouse. Do you not agree, angelic Anita? Are you not happy to have such an amazing man as myself around to keep you safe?"

"I believe I would be happier locked in a nunnery, away from the roguish knaves patrolling Paris."

"And I shall do my best to safe-keep you from such men."

"Exactly how far into denial are you?"

"I know that my mighty presence is perhaps too much for you to handle alone, sweet, delicate Anita. Let us congregate with our peers of a similar caliber."

"If it means that I shall not have to suffer your absurdity alone, then yes; please take me to more tolerable company."

"No need to praise me!" Mathias blithely responds. "Look! There enters Captain Ludwig now! And he brings with him some of the more beautiful lambs- but do not fret Anita. For I will never be jealous or give chase so long as you are clinging to my arm."

"If that is how you feel then free us both from our chains. Release my arm and it shall fall to my side."

But as per usual, poor Lady Anita went unheard. Arm in arm the two join with the familiar faces of their class. Indeed Captain Ludwig is among them. His regular duties brought to a halt in order to bring such concerned ladies safe passage so that they may give their god-mannered graces. Only now that they are within Notre Dame, he could not shake off the coquettish cousines. They clung to his arms, the three of them, talking about tapestries and charities and of who is not keeping up with the latest fashions. "And her robe!" One says with weary exasperation. "The embroidered laurel gives her the air of a walking mantelpiece!" The company would not be so insupportable if perhaps they would not ask him of an opinion. For now, in order to not disgrace himself, Ludwig would have to give acceptable answers to their bizarre questions. Such a task is difficult enough when one has little understanding of the subject as it is, but seeing as how their destination had been the Notre Dame cathedral- a place Ludwig has not been able to look upon without feeling immense sorrow and longing- the anxiety bubbling within him as they approached made both concentration and speech impossible miracles.

"Bonjour Lady Carlotta, Lady Josephine, Lady Margaret." Mathias calls jovially. "I see you have managed to keep a hold of our swift footed captain."

"Sir Mathias, Lady Anita! Good day to you as well."

"What a pleasant surprise this is!"

"It certainly is a surprise." Lady Anita softly comments.

A large portion of the hour is spent chatting gaily of harmless gossip; newborn niblings , visiting relatives, the sort of talk that is neither scandalous and enthralling nor dull and tiresome. After all, Notre Dame shelters noble and plebian alike and it simply would not do if that sort eavesdropped on the better class.

Ludwig however, feeling lost in place and words, remains civil yet silent; only nodding when etiquette permits. As inconspicuously as one would expect of the battle-hardened, his eyes surveil the pews and parish. And one should consider it most likely that he is performing his duty of protecting Paris and her status quo; but if an observer were to pay close attention, they would notice that those dour eyes habitually returned to the doorway of the cloisters.

"Letting your curiosities get a hold of you, Captain?"

And of course, Lady Anita would be that observer.

"I-I know not what you mean My Lady."

The three Ladies giggle in the coy-like manner popular amongst their station. "And just what is it that distracts our Captain so?"

"Ah! Tis the little dancer- the gypsy child!" The second Lady sighs.

"I have seen him dance," the third one adds. "He does so rather delightfully..."

Mathias, mindful of whose company he is in, for once holds in all words of lewdness and perversion. Of course, he has been taught since infancy the very art of the well-bred, and so speaking with his fellow class and those related to it came easily enough; but his years as a man has made him more accustomed to the conversation of bars and brothels. And like many others in his position, cordial manner has become like a second language- not quite natural or refined. Due to this, Mathias' attempt to remain well in company was becoming a bit of a strain. The comments, honest and foul, perhaps as gross and yet natural as the human body, collects on his tongue as saliva and flows in his lungs as air. He does however hold such amazing willpower to choke them down like warm and watered ale, but exercise in doing so leaves him shaking and soaked as if with fever.

Once again, Lady Anita is ever observant. "Good Sir Mathias," she says with uncharacteristically docile sweetness. "Make a sign for this little gypsy to come to us. It will amuse us."

Both of the soldiers balk. "T-tis not worth while!" they try to argue, but soon the other ladies make the request as well, hoping that finding amusement in the show of the dancer boy would help secure the favor of at least one of the handsome bachelor officers.

And so Anita, who only longs to see her knightly pursuer tremble with discomfort finally receives her wish as Mathias stiffly calls out, "Little one! Little one!"

Alfred has neither been dancing nor striking his tambourine. With great difficulty he has so far in fact manage to spend the day heeding the advice of his elder brother and promptly stayed out of the way, causing no trouble for anyone, least of all himself. He turns his head towards the sound of the call and when he first sees that it comes from a guard, he tenses. But then those brilliant eyes of his land on Ludwig and he smiles. Of course, his hero would not have him lead into a trap.

Cautious still, Alfred slowly walks through the Prenave; nervous and waiting for more guards to leap from the shadows to drag him outside. He stops before the group, blushing and confused, his eyes large and wary, and he makes sure that the one he stands closest to is Ludwig; feeling safer near to him and less like a small flightless bird before a serpent.

Mathias claps his hands, feeling empowered by the boy's discomfort. "What awesome luck!" he chortles. "A gypsy finally capable of obedience! If only all such exotic creatures were so well trained."

Meanwhile, Alfred remains in his place; his lips and gut contort slightly at the expressed insult supposed to be taken as a compliment. But he stands firm and keeps his eyes cast down, determined to keep mindful of his elder brother's concerns. After all, 'twas his hot tempered habit of speaking out of rank that made him confined to Notre Dame in the first place.

Of course, being a gypsy, it is only in Alfred's nature to cause trouble everywhere he goes- no matter what he does or does not do. And so it was at this moment, standing in the near empty prenave and clutching his tambourine to his small and soft bosom did the naive dancer commit a most grievous offense.

It is a given that the moment Lady Carlotta, Lady Josephine, and Lady Margaret approached Captain Ludwig in request of his accompany that an unofficial yet understood rivalry arose within their clique. With each of the three ladies not yet married or even spoken for, and an honorable man in their midst- one who has yet to make his affections known- a natural desire to please the handsome officer and win his favour became apparent. During their competition so far, there has yet to be need for foul play, after all each of the ladies saw themselves of equal beauty and therefore equally matched. And when Lady Anita joined their group, though perhaps being more fair, had not been seen as a threat for it is well rumored that she and Sir Mathias shall have their hands joined soon. But this boy- this gypsy- whose beauty refuses to be marred by the garb that (in their opinion) looks as silly as a serf dressed as a merchant, wounds their beauty simply by existing amongst them. And so recognizing a common enemy, the competitors form a temporary alliance of sorts; drawing up a battle plan without even exchanging a single word. Collectively they eye the dancer boy from head to toe and understand what must be done.

Meanwhile Lady Anita too surveys the child who could be no older than her own darling brother. "Little one," she suddenly calls. "This past week I saw you lively dance just outside this very cathedral. Tell me, what has caused you to hide yourself so?"

Alfred's eyes flicker quickly towards his hero then back down to his feet. "I have been told to be still and pleasant while my brother is out."

"For his protection," Ludwig adds. "Alfred has taken refuge here under the claim of sanctuary."

"Truly a pity." Lady Anita says. Her voice sounding more grave than usual. She reaches out and pulls Alfred to her side, the unsuspecting boy stumbling into her hold. "Such a pretty little thing should not be hiding away. Do you not agree?" She pirouettes the boy in front of Mathias, and takes delight as he fights against his own foolish tongue.

"H-he is quite a handsome wench."

Lady Carlotta upturns her nose. "Rather savagely dressed in my opinion."

"Tis true!" Says Lady Josephine through a nasally giggle. "Just look at that skirt! How could you possibly run about in something so short!"

"Are there even any petticoats underneath?"

Alfred finds himself tangled with the three ladies. Their hands tugging at his shirt, pulling his limbs, and weaving through his hair as they talk about him. "What a gaudy girdle!"

"With such jewelry he must jingle with every movement!"

"Had you taken on a more sumptuous dress code, your arms would receive less sun damage."

"Enough!"

**(!)**

Before anyone of the noble party could question their captain's choice to interfere upon the entertainment, the sweet and strong north tower bells ring; signaling the beginning of sunset, the end of the work day, informing the peasants working their allotted day on God's land to come inside for spiritual nourishment, and- to anyone believing in fate and miracles- saving both dancer and soldier from further humiliation. With each tenor chime Ludwig eases the tension in his fists. It is a delicate situation with these high born maidens. Should their honor even be the least bit slighted it would spell disastrous social repercussions. After a spell, he clears his throat. "It appears the hour has grown late." He says. "I am afraid your prayers shall have to wait until the morrow. Lt. Mathias, please see to it that these lovely ladies return home safely."

"Indulging your curiosities again, Captain?" Anita says with a smile as small as her voice. "Come cousines! I should like to retire before the blushing of the lanterns." That said, the travel party walks out into the dusk's glow.

Ludwig lets out a sigh of relief; his muscles and very bones easing out their tension. Had his heart and breath been still, no doubt he would have heard their creaks and groans along with feeling them. Pressure alleviated, he turns and sees Alfred quickly dash off to the nearest chamber and pursues without hesitancy. He steps into the northern transept chapel where the still setting sun bathes everything inside with a holy fire. "Alfred..." he softly calls. There the poor dancer stands just within the eye of the rose coloured glass; his cheeks alight in fury but his eyes stained with sadness and shame. "Let them talk," he whispers and if one did not know him, they should be amazed at such a deep voice flowing sweetly as honeyed cream. "Please do not take their pettiness seriously."

"Oh! No..." Alfred hastily rubs his palms across his eyes. He quivers a smile; his lips- the petals of a flower fighting against turbulent winds. "That was nothing. Besides, I am used to hearing those things." He sniffles. "It comes with the job." Ludwig keeps a small distance and watches the boy massage away the pains to his pride; woodland fawns innocent and nimble are known to run from both the wolves and the worshipers. "Hey!" He cries- joyful mask perfectly in place. "What is this place? Is this room used for prayer too?"

Ludwig chokes down his shock at the boy's misconstrued reasoning, not wanting to cause the boy any further offense. No! Endearing tales of undying love captured through the art of stained glass and resurrected by the celestial luminaries is no place for grim confessionals. Though he could think of many a man whose time would be spent better at a kneeling pew than a wedding altar. He turns away and disguises what few remnants of a gasp that cannot be suppressed as coughs. Once steady, he steps closer. "This is a chapel. It is where wedding ceremonies take place." Ludwig removes his pine needle hued cloak and glides the fabric over Alfred's head and face.

"H-hey! What are you-"

"Traditionally," he continues. "The bride is dressed in white."

"But I-" Alfred fidgets anxiously. His hands wring themselves, knees converge with one another, and rolled onto the ball of his left foot, his toes gently twist on the floor. "I'm not...a woman..." he whispers.

"No." Ludwig confirms. He takes those two twitching, fidgeting, wringing palms firmly into his own. "But in the eyes of the law," he states. "You are not exactly a man either."

"O-oh..."

Ludwig leads the veiled and blinded Alfred further ahead. "And this," he starts. The silence, while brief, becomes more asphyxiating which each second stretching out into eternity. "Is the marriage altar- where the bride and groom meet," he gently lifts the veil up and over, tucking it underneath that defiant curl of his blushing bride, "and see each other for the first time." And should a soul ever ask, Ludwig would swear even upon facing heresy that it was the Madonna appearing before him during these last lights of the day.

"O-oh..."

Ludwig coughs. Fruitlessly he hopes to expel the airs fueling the fires of his flushed face and neck. "Then from the holy scriptures, a priest preaches of marital obligation and love."

Alfred chuckles lightly; his imagination allowing him to become engaged in his hero's illustration of a happily ever after. "I guess Father Feliciano does most of these weddings, huh?"

"Hmm," Ludwig grunts. "I should hope that he conducts ALL of them." He says in a voice deepening with a frown. But the tautness of his brows and jaw is quickly put at ease by the beautiful sound of loud and sincere laughter. Even the almost too real voice in his head of an irate Italian huffing out vows starting off with, "Do you take this Bastard-" is no match for the happiness in human form standing just before him. "And then after the vows are given, there would be a blessing, followed by the partaking of communion."

"Communion?"

Ludwig nods. "The body and blood of Christ."

"B-B-B-BLOOD!?"

"It is wine and unleavened bread!" He is quick to add.

Alfred gasps. "Your hero god bleeds wine?"

"...no."

Alfred whines. "These kind of weddings sound...serious." He says with a pout and puffed cheeks.

"Marriage is a very serious thing, Alfred."

"No! No! That's not...I mean..." Alfred averts his gaze; inhaling deeply as his mind translates emotion into words. "I just...Your weddings are complicated."

"And what of your weddings? What are they like?"

"Well..." Alfred places his hands on his hips and cocks his head to the side. "It depends, but usually the groom negotiates with the bride's family first."

"Ah! I...I see." All at once life itself drains from Ludwig's face, having been chased off by the shade of dread and replaced with a cloudy misery. "So one would have to go through your brother for your hand."

"HA-HA HA-HA HA!" Completely oblivious to the guard's turmoil- to his very change in stance as hopelessness bares down upon him- Alfred bursts into hysterics. The bridal child clutches at his veil wrapping it around himself as he twirls not gracefully but still in rhythm to the tune of his lungs' music. "No! Never! HA HA!" Alfred, nearly breathless from his fit, wipes warm and plump tears from the corners of his eyes. "If it were up to him, I would never get married. HA HA!" Still swaying with glee, Alfred does not notice the relieved sigh coming from Ludwig. Unwittingly, he continues, "My uncle is a lot more merciful. He would be the man to go to." Still giggling at the phantasm sound of his brother picking apart every flaw of an imagined suitor, Alfred removes his hip scarf- his soft laughs twinkling in tune to the clinking of golden charms. "If the groom is lucky," he ties the ends of the scarf together and starts rolling the edges. "Then both the bride and groom are crowned before the whole community." He steps forward and reaches up, arching his back as he "crowns" Ludwig with his scarf. The spaces between their faces greatly diminished, even a single feather would have difficulty threading itself betwixt their lips. But Alfred's eyes and mind are focused solely on fashioning the guard to be a perfectly dressed groom; not even noticing said guard's erratic heartbeat or fevered flesh. Finally the boy steps back, satisfied with his cosmetology. "And then, both the bride and groom would take a drink." He says just before skipping off.

"D-drink?" Ludwig repeats; his mind at a halt and unable to work in his overheated body.

"Yes. They drink from a jug." Alfred holds up a nearly empty pitcher taken from a wash basin. "Well...it's supposed to be a jug with wine inside."

Ludwig reaches out to the ornate pitcher, his rough hands sliding across the smooth porcelain, grazing against fingers bronzed by the sun and touched by hardship yet still tender and unscathed.

**(!)**

When again the bells ring.

"Ah!" Alfred cries. His hands fly up in alarm- losing his hold on the pitcher and it not quite held by either gypsy or soldier, it falls and dies with a clattering sound. "Aha ha..." He nervously laughs. "I was not expecting that."

"Vesper bells..." Ludwig mutters; his hands still in the air but his face cast downwards frowning at the shattered remains of the pearl-like pitcher. Those damn bells... "They are for evening prayers."

"E-evening?!" Alfred rushes over to the windows where, now that he is no longer caught up in the world of fantasies and romance, he sees the moonlight swimming in with the starlight. He stops just before Ruth and Boaz but searches for a more familiar face through the glass. "Where is Mattie?! He should be back by now!"

Begrudgingly Ludwig joins Alfred and half heartedly looks for the missing brother. He knows that should either of them spot the man, it would be the end of their evening; something that he is not looking forward to. But unfortunately the call of duty came before the man could be located. Just off of the church's property, on an unlit out of use bystreet, there gathers what appears to be a frenzious mob; awkward looking individuals and at the center of it all, standing atop a stage of barrels and crates there seems to be-

"Forgive me but I must go, Alfred."

"No wait!" Alfred reaches out; both hands barely able to grab onto Ludwig's fingers in time. "Tis not what it looks like!" Matthew forgotten, Alfred pulls Ludwig back to the windows and points to the almost alarming scene outside. "He is my uncle." He says with his finger pressed upon the violet tippet of a blue clad man leading the crowd. "He is a well respected man- I mean I know he can be dramatic but...trust me. Trust me and just watch. Nothing bad will happen, I promise."

Discipline and duty tell Ludwig to go, to put an end to what looks to be a riot and to do so quickly before serious casualties are resulted. But with Alfred's hand holding his own, it is all too easy to ignore discipline and duty and to, foolishly as many would say, place his trust in the gypsy world.

* * *

Francois slides the noose knot further down the line. All in attendance would say that he looks far better in spirit and health than he did yesterday- and why shouldn't he? Tonight is to be a thrilling night and neither the living nor the dead shall ruin it for him. "I understand that a man in your tacky shoes is probably too busy watching his past flash before him to fully understand his present situation," he says while giving rope a playful shake. "So allow me to explain." He reaches down into the crowd and pulls up a young woman with red ribbons in her hair. The radiance of her eyes, her skin, her very soul showing that she is ready to finally leave behind girlhood- what little she could afford of it- and fully embrace maturity. "This lovely little flower is Mychelle, but of course you already knew that." Francois says with a smirk. He draws her into his arms and pulls her close, tucking her head beneathe his chin. "She is very dear to me- like a daughter. So when I heard that you were planning to steal her from me- me! Her family!- and make her your own, my protective instincts took over."

"No! I would never steal her!" The boy- no, young man cries. "I came to you for your permission and blessing...but...I know how things are between my people and your people so...if my death helps Mychelle then so be it!"

Francois observes this man; this shaking, lanky, man whose eyes are closed in trepidation. He is impressed but still surprised that the poor guy's hosiery was still dry. And then Francois feels it. The sleeping dragon within his gut has stretched itself out and raised its head. Bubbling hot blood screams up Francois' throat and he erupts a loud and sudden, "BWAHAHAH-HAHAHA-HA!" His hands fly to his face to wipe away tears of glee. "Silly boy, in life you are nothing to me, and so in death your worth shall be the same!"

Mychelle shakes her head and offers an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Tobias. He gets like this sometimes."

"Ohoho! Your death means nothing to _me_." Francois smiles. "However, it would break my poor Mychelle's heart to do such a thing, non?"

Tobias gasps, his eyes and mouth bursting open. Relieved, he whispers, "Y-you mean...?"

"Oui, oui..." Francois waves his hand. "I already knew of Mychelle's love for you. And as soon as we met, I could see you felt the same. I have a talent for these things."

Relief quickly turns into shock and anger. "Th-then why would you-"

"For excitement and romance of course!"

"How is this-"

"I wanted to tell you." Mychelle, now free to embrace her beloved, kisses Tobias' cheek. "He planned this sometime ago and made me promise to keep it a secret."

Francois chuckles and cuts the ropes binding poor Tobias' hands. "But it looks like we shall have our party after all!" He shouts to the cheers and applause of the surrounding crowd. " _Wedding or hanging, well what does it matter? You're sure to be roped at the end of the day. Wedding or hanging, the former, the latter, we know either way you are going to pay._" Francois swiftly cuts both the noose rope and the coin purse off of the still stunned Tobias. "And of course the groom must pay the bride price. It is another custom." Francois leaps into the throng of people, most of which were in on his little joke as well, and seeks out only the most skilled amongst them. " _But we cannot have a wedding planned without a wedding band. We need some music so tambourines clatter! Break out the fiddles and play gypsies play!_ " Immediately the strings soar high. Notes dance rapidly; buzzing through the air and diving down to the feet, wanting to elicit a jig. And while the merry melody might suit some marriages, Francois knows that such will not do for this couple. "No, no, no. Something romantic to set the mood." Not a breath goes by before the lutes and tambourines join in to create a song out of stars. "Ah...that's better."

_La la la la la, la la la_  
_Sing a wedding song tonight_  
_For the pretty bride- to show her_  
_We're sharing the glow_

Francois comes to the joining lovers and offers what splendor he can: a lantern. Its paper dark and rigid with shapes of a crescent moon and stars cut out. " _Should our moon be just a lantern, still she will shine big and bright on this happy scene below her._ " Perhaps with a little bit of talent and magic, kindled in the souls of hopeful survivors, they can create a world untouched by hatred and hardship, even if only for tonight.

_So, as long as there's a moon_  
_To wish on_  
_So, as long as there's a song_  
_To croon_  
_We'll throw the wedding jug to keep tradition_

_And hope your love will last as long as there's a moon..._

* * *

Ludwig, seeing that his trust has not been misdirected, relaxes. As both he and Alfred, still dressed as bride and groom, watch the wedding ceremony unfold, his attention turns to the pitcher shards still laying before the marital alter. His eyes, lips, entire expression and being, soften with smiles as he hears a similar smash just outside. "One, two, three- a thousand pieces." He hears from the man outside, Alfred's uncle, the one he too would have to go through someday. "That means your marriage will last a thousand years."

Beside him, he feels Alfred relax as well. "See," the boy says with serene joy. "I told you nothing bad would happen." Ludwig turns back to Alfred to see daylight eyes glowing with moonbeams and stardust flicker back and forth between the mock groom and the wedding outside. "So...you won't arrest anyone...will you?"

"Of course not." With his free hand, Ludwig caresses Alfred's cheek. " _Who am I to fight the power of candlelight and mandolins? It seems it would be awfully rude now making them go_." He trails his hand along the veil and settles it just above Alfred's hip; molded perfectly to his fit. " _Once they start the bridal shower..._ " He brings up his other hand, still in Alfred's hold, and takes the dancer's hand in turn. _"Once the wedding march begins..._ " Gently, he coaxes his bride closer; two flesh melding together as one. _"Who am I to spoil the mood now?_ "

And together the two follow a dance of the lanterns above and stars below as the moonlit melody continues...

_So as long as there's a moon above us_  
_Oh it seems a shame to waste this tune_  
_You know_  
_We all want someone to love us_  
_Faithfully and true_  
_As long as there's a moon_

* * *

_They say the moon is like a gypsy_  
_She casts a spell and then she's gone_  
_We know life is strange_  
_Everything could change with the dawn_  
_Let the night go on_

_Oh!_  
_As long as there's a moon_  
_To guide us_

_Oh!_  
_Don't let the morning come too soon_

_You know_  
_We all want someone beside us_  
_None of us are truly solitaire_  
_Every moon is new when someone cares_  
_I will care for you_  
_As long as there's a moon_

* * *

The waltz between soldier and dancer slows, its end approaching with the outro. Silently they stand; faces angled and aligned with each other, lips parted to let out lungs passion. Eyes sparkling with the magic of the night, their gazes lock onto one another in a trance. Unaware of the reality continuing around them, they only understand the force between them. Eyes flutter and that gap diminishes, fingers lace together, and breath mingles to further destroy the illusion of separation. Groom about to bestow his rightful kiss upon his bride when-

_WHACK!_

A fist crashes into Ludwig's face. Back he stumbles, but quickly recognizing the one wielding said fist, he stands down. Before him is Matthew, standing as a wrath powered tempest whose winds would knock down Ludwig should he let them. To assault an officer is an offense punishable by a beating, an arrest, and in many cases death! But Ludwig lets it pass. After all, Matthew is Alfred's brother; so one day they might be brothers-in-law! There should be little bad blood between them. Because of this, Ludwig does nothing- not even flinch as Matthew's hand- like lightening- lashes and retrieves Alfred's scarf, as his cloak is thrown back in his face, or as Alfred is dragged away. He even tolerates little Peter and that cub kicking and clawing at his shins. Soon they too dash out, leaving Ludwig alone in the chapel.

He sighs.

Everything seems so much darker now...quieter...emptier...

Ludwig places his cloak back on, smiling slightly as he inhales the scent of apples. For a moment, discipline and duty tell him to clean up the mess made with the broken beyond recognition pitcher, but again he ignores such reasoning and instead leaves the shards as a mark and promise of fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank all you for reading. I sincerely hope that you enjoyed this chapter and enjoyed singing along! Thank you so much for the kudos, the bookmarks, and the comments! Stay safe everyone and I'll see you in the next chapter!


	13. At the Top of the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally written and posted on FFN in 2015. When I had first wrote this, it had only been about 2 months since I had posted the last chapter but it had felt like much longer. Because of my job and my living situation, I didn't have the motivation to write but I also had no intention of giving up.
> 
> Back then, concerning the chapters posted before, I had been taking direct inspiration from Kat With Shamrocks, the animated Disney film, the French Canadian opera, and the book with more subtle or indirect inspiration from the German stage musical (I had only seen a bootleg recording). Then one day YouTube had recommended me a collab cover of Top of the World. I had already planned on using this song and just translating it, but this was the first time I had heard it in English!
> 
> I was still working long hours at my very draining job but on my commute I would listen to the video (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Je1IUBEPZs4) and it really motivated me to continue! I do recommend giving it a watch or a listen!

**_At the Top of the World..._ **

Today is the day Peter becomes a man.

_"Peter, you are not to go to the Oxensternia's today..."_

Matthew's voice still seems distant and unreal as a dream.

_"I cannot leave Alfred to himself. I need someone to look after him- someone whom I can trust to make certain he stays out of trouble..."_

But it was real! Matthew did say those words! And the day that Peter has been waiting seemingly his entire life for is here. The dream that Kumajirou- _dummy bear doesn't know anything_ \- snuffed and huffed at is coming true.

_"So until I find that person, you are in charge."_

"That means _I'm_ the big brother today!" Peter says. With one hand placed proudly on his hip and the other curled in a little fist, the thumb of which jutting out, pointing at his puffed out chest. Yes Peter could feel himself growing bigger and stronger by the second. Perhaps there would even be a few hairs on his chest at the end of the day!

Alfred crosses his arms and pouts. "This is so unfair." Of course Matthew had not been happy about Alfred spending time with Ludwig yesterday...or about eveything that happened the day before...or the scary night before that; but this change in dynamic is uncalled for in Alfred's opinion.

"HA!" Peter shouts. "You should not have been kissing with Captain Bastard!" he says smugly.

_"Peter!"_

"Now I'm the big brother and you have to do what I say! So HA!" Silence falls between the two as Alfred makes the borrowed bed that the trio has been sharing for the past two nights. Peter stands aside both hands on his hips now. Tidying up after children is something that mothers do- it is something that Alfred does. The time allows Peter to truly think about what it means to be a big brother. After all, he has never been one before and he only has his brothers' examples to guide him. Matthew is the kind of brother who worries far too much but tells great stories and gives the best hugs. Matthew is the kind of papa who knows everything- _EVERYTHING!_ He even knows where the sun goes at night; _"He went home to go to bed. Now go to sleep, Peter."_ But Matthew is also the kind of papa who knows when you are lying and spanks you for the silliest of things such as feeding your oatmeal to Kumajirou; _"What did I say about wasting food, Peter?"_

"Hmm..." Peter is unsure of whether Matthew is better as a brother or as a father.

"There we go, all done." Alfred says.

Alfred on the other hand is a terrible older brother! Alfred is the kind of older brother who never knows what to do and gets lost very easily. As a younger brother though, Alfred is amazing. He argues, he gets in trouble, and he never listens to Matthew which, Peter believes, is exactly what little brothers are supposed to do. Although Alfred might be the greatest younger brother Peter has even seen, Peter knows that despite what anyone- what even Matthew says (or rather what Matthew says now) Alfred is far greater as a mother than as a brother. As he should be! After all, Alfred has been a mother far longer than he has been a brother...

...at least, according to Peter.

* * *

_Some of Peter's earliest memories involve being on Momma's hip. Sometimes it would be just he and Momma. Sometimes he and Momma would be with other people. More often that not though, he and Momma were with a man named "Mattie"._

Peter wails as ice and rain cut along his face and neck; the rest of his body thankfully protected by his mostly dry clothing. As Momma runs, carrying him to the nearest shelter, Peter- non too quietly- decides that he hates this place. Then again, Peter hates every place that they have travelled through since leaving for Paris. Making their way to Rouen, winds and dark clouds roar above as ice and plump raindrops fall. Peter clings tightly to Momma; his arms and legs wrapping around Momma's neck and waist, squeezing every time the sky flashes with blinding white lightning and the thunder roars.

"Momma! Momma!"

"Shhh..." Momma whispers. "Tis alright, Peter. Everything will be fine." Momma squeezes back. "But we need to be quiet right now, okay?" Peter nuzzles into Momma's soft chest. The storm is still howling in their ears and clawing at their faces and bodies, and Peter still hates being in this city but if Momma says everything will be alright then it must be so. "Are you cold?" Momma places Peter on his feet but the ground is cold, hard and wet; yet another thing that Peter hates. "Hold on! One minute, Peter!" Should someone ask Peter what he loves, one of the things he would list would be Momma's arms and how they are always close by- perfect for him to leap into. "So small. So young." Those dummies would say. Why couldn't they see that Momma is the perfect size? Everyone and everything else is just too big! Peter has seen other mothers; how they have to fold themselves in half to gather their crying babes. Peter never has to cry for very long! How lucky he is to have such a small mother! Why even his clothes are too big! Which Peter believes is how things should be. After all, Mattie says that their clothes should be able to last them for a few more years; Peter should be able to grow into his tunic, Mattie's long, dark wool coat might last forever if it doesn't completely tear up, and Momma's red dress should be decent for another year or two. How silly for those too large mothers are to wear clothes that fit perfectly now! How silly indeed!

Momma unties a bright blue scarf from around his shoulders, wraps it around Peter, and then scoops Peter back onto his hip. "Feeling better?"

Peter yawns. "Oui Momma..." Peter nuzzles into the crook of Momma's neck. The storm is easier to ignore with his warm mother smiling and humming a lullaby and gently running those " _so young, so small_ " fingers through his hair. No longer is it dark and cold and raining. In Momma's arms, the world is only sunshine and the pain and emptiness of his belly quickly ebbs away. Yes Peter's mother is truly the best there is.

"Please monsieur," Mattie begs, "Allow my family shelter from this storm. We will be grateful for even a closet just until the rain passes."

The innkeeper scoffs. "What do you take me for boy? I run a respectable business. No dogs! No gypsies!"

"But we won't cause trouble!" Mattie desperately pleads. "W-we have the money! And if we are short, I can work off the rest!" He needs to get his brothers out of this kind of weather lest they develop consumption or die of exposure. Their health is far more important than his pride. "At least take in my sister and nephew!" Matthew could see the innkeeper mull over the offer. He himself is fully prepared to stay up all night doing whatever taxing or menial chores ordered him. It would not be the first time he placed himself at the mercy of a stranger.

"Alright." The innkeeper grunts out. "I have a room for you and the kid. As for the girl," The innkeeper leers at the young mother, curling his lips with desire. "I have a bed for her."

Matthew squeezes his hands into fists, shaking them at his sides. No! _He_ can place _himself_ in a vulnerable position, but his brothers-

...

"Bonne nuit, monsieur." Matthew growls through clenched teeth. He turns sharply and walks across the narrow street to where his brothers are huddled. Head held high, he refuses to give that vile bastard of a man the satisfaction of seeing him pathetically defeated. "Allons-y you two." Matthew kisses his brothers. "Not a word, Alfie," he whispers. "Now get in my coat...and don't you dare look at that man."

Alfred obeys, but he is still " _so young, so small_ " his impulses have yet to be properly disciplined. So as the little family trudges further in the rain and night, poor, foolish Alfred squeaks out, "What did he say, Mattie? What did the innkeeper want?"

"Not a word, Alfie."

"But Matt-"

"Dammit Alfred, will you just listen to me for once and-!"

"I don't get it." Peter wearily whines. "Why aren't we going inside? Are we dogs?"

Mattie sighs. "We might as well be..."

Momma tightens his hold on the toddler. "Don't worry, Peter. We will be fine." Alfred closes the rather miniscule distance between himself and Matthew within the eldest brother's coat. "We will find a safe place to sleep tonight! Won't we Mattie?" Too short to reach the neck of the coat, Alfred cannot see his brother's face. However, he can see and feel Matthew's trembling form; hear the swallowed sobs and coughs. He pushes further into Matthew's frame, unable to hold his brother's hand. "Mattie-"

 _Men don't cry! Men don't cry!_ " 'M fine, Alfred." Matthew sniffles and scrubs at his face, thankful that the cold rain can soothe the swelling shame and pitiful anger of his cheeks. "Tis just rainwater." The family walks until the exhaustion becomes unbearable. Their bed for the evening is the soft dirt and the stone walls of a dark alley with Mattie's coat sheltering most of their bodies from the heaven's torrent. Mattie sits against the wall, offering his body as a warmer and softer bed for his family. Alfred sits on his lap, laying his head against Matthew's chest. Peter nestles in the warmest spot between his mother and the man he is certain must be his father. Tis not the most comfortable night, but the warmth and familiarity of their positions is enough to give them a feeling of home.

_Not every night had been like this of course, but sleeping in narrow alleys had not been uncommon for the brothers. While Peter has hazy memories of these times, it was never the pain, cold, hunger, or sadness that he remembered. Twas the strong and steady heart drums lulling him to sleep, the comfort and safety of Mattie's jacket or Momma's scarf, and best of all, Momma's soft and squeaky voice humming a song that could even make Mattie smile._

* * *

_"Hmm hmmm... la-la-la laaa la..."_

Peter opens his eyes, the weight of sleep slowly lifting away. He rubs the last few drops of bleary dreams from his eyes and looks around, the long hours of the day piecing together quickly. He- as the big brother- had walked with Alfred all around the cathedral, performing chores wherever they could in gratitude for their meals and board. The last place Alfred went to was the kitchen where he and Father Feliciano were to prepare dinner together. Of course Alfred would be cooking! Tis such a mother thing to do- such an Alfred thing indeed! Peter, much more inclined to eat food than make it, had taken a nap- after making his _little_ brother promise to not leave the kitchen and wander into trouble.

In a chair not too close is Father Feliciano, dozing off with pleasant snores of, " _Ve ve ve ve~_ " and apparently the pillow Peter has been using is Alfred's bosom. He looks up to his brother's face. "You are supposed to be cooking..."

"Shh..." Alfred hushes are always softer than Matthew's. "We finished," he whispers. "Now we wait for the bread to cool."

"Oh..." Peter yawns. "You were humming that song again..."

Alfred tenses! But only for a moment. "I was thinking about our mother."

Peter nuzzles into the " _so small, so young_ " breasts. "Oh!...I was think about my momma too."

"Veeee~" Father Feliciano stretches his aging bones, ignoring their pops of protest. "The bread is done! And the pasta should be just right!" He walks to the pot of simmering spaghetti and stirs the pasta round. With a gentle nudge Alfred sends Peter to wash the sleep sand from his eyes, the poor boy momentarily forgetting that he is supposed to be the big brother and thus the one to give out the commands. "You should go wash up too!" Father Feliciano says. "There is not much else left to do. I can take care of the rest."

Alfred frantically waves his hands. "Oh no! I have to help! You have done so much for me and my brothers already."

"Ve? Alfred, you and yours owe us nothing." Plate after plate Father Feliciano handles with beautiful skill and care. "We receive freely so we give freely- this is the will of the Lord."

"But Mattie told us...we have to work for what we are given." Alfred wrings his hands. His eyes fall as he twists his toes into the cool tile. "Mattie says that nothing in this world is free."

"Hmm...very well." Father Feliciano places one of the plates in Alfred's hands. The pasta on top deliciously steamy on the warm china. "Take this plate up the south tower. Follow the veranda west, then north, then west again. There you will come across a door. Set the plate down and knock, then immediately come back! Do you understand?"

Alfred nods dumbly; happy to pay off his fabricated debt.

North, west, north again. Alfred carefully follows the instruction of the old, chubby, priest. "Maybe he doesn't like the stairs..." he muses. He makes a little game out of it, balancing the pasta and bread, tilting the plate a little here and there to keep every noodle, every drop of sauce safe from spill. " _Hmm hmmm... la-la-la laaa la_ ," He should have stopped at the door. He should have done as told and set the plate down, knock, and run, but when has a gypsy every obeyed set rules? Alfred stands in front of the cracked open door- the very same one he nearly went through two days ago. Auburn hairs of the setting sun wisp from the little sliver of secret freedom. And since Alfred cannot help but to disobey and cause trouble, he slips through the door crack nervous and excited for what awaits him. Alfred goes further inside. "Hello?" he calls. Shuffling sounds from above alert him to the company of another- presumably the one who the plate is for. Alfred climbs up the steps, plate balanced in one hand, skirt hiked in the other. "Wow..."

There, placed just before the setting sun sits tiny Paris on a table. The oranges and yellows streaming into a scattered rainbow of fantastic colors from the glass work above.

Breath taken, he glides to the little display. He sets the plate down first and with a curious hand, reaches out to the figures below.

"You should not be here!"

Alfred jumps and turns to the voice in the shadows and smiles. "What is this place?" he asks, voice breathy with wonder and awe.

"...It is where I live." Alfred recognizes the large man- the man he has encountered before. "And you should not be here! You...you do not belong here."

"Oh...I...I like your home." Alfred tries to keep the hurt out of his voice. He is quite used to being told where he belongs, but truthfully he hopes this man to have not meant so coarsely. "Ivan right? You stumbled in my tent while I was changing, remember?"

Ivan stiffens. Dumbly he nods and hopelessly tries to make himself smaller- small enough to disappear in the shadows.

"Did you make all of these yourself?" Alfred asks, turning back to the little Paris.

"Yes...most of them."

"Oh wow." Alfred whispers. Nimbly his fingers play with the hanging glass. He smiles at their magical clinking sounds. "Amazing!" He bends to take in each detail of the crafts before him. "If I could make these, he wouldn't see me dancing for deniers."

"But you are an excellent dancer!"

Alfred chuckles. "Well, it does keep the clothes on our backs." From the corner of his eye, Alfred spots an unpainted carving. It seems almost finished- as if it had been hastily dropped not a moment ago. He blows away the fresh wood chippings and giggles at the familiar face looking back. "You made Mattie? You made Mattie! Ha ha!" Alfred looks over every detail. It is almost perfect. "Little Mattie is not as stiff as the real one though." Alfred turns around hoping to see Ivan relaxed and in the light. Unfortunately the poor man is still attempting to wedge himself in the darkness; his violet eyes blinking wide. Alfred wrings his hand and twists his toes into the floor boards. "Wouldn't you like to come to where I can see you?"

No, Ivan could not possibly face his shame. For the past two days, Ivan has suffered his repentance in silence; his Master refusing to see him. Even now, he did not deserve the company of the boy. He is especially underserving of Alfred's kindness and smile, and it hurts Ivan to know that such things are genuine. Alfred's affection is far crueler than his Master's punishment and Ivan cannot stand it. He would have told the boy that he does not belong to Ivan's miserable company- that he must go back to his brothers and never return lest Ivan snatch him away again. Before he can however, his pesky albeit well-intended friends interfere.

_"Ugh! Oh my God, Ivan! Stop being so, like, fricken shy!"_

Gilbert offers him a smirk and a waggle of his brows. _"He's waiting for you!"_

_"Think of something to say."_

_"Or, like, something to do."_

_"Oh! I know! I know! Show him the awesome view!"_

"Ivan?"

Ivan stumbles into the light- hiding in his scarf and playing with the tassels. "Would you like to see the view?"

"Of course!" Ivan leads Alfred through his tucked away quarters and out to the highest veranda of Notre Dame. Outside Paris is wrapped in the gleam and splendor of the setting sun. Outside the pinks and oranges and purples- along with the diamonds floating on the Seine and in the sky- become a grand masterpiece.

"Amazing!"

Ivan's heart swells with pride as Alfred gasps in wonder.

"I bet the king himself doesn't have a view like this." Alfred walks as close to the ledge as possible; leaning into the golden wind. "From up here, tis hard to imagine that bad things could ever happen in such a wonderful place." Alfred sits on the ledge railing and stares out into the world. Thankful for the view making the past few days seem inconsequential. _"Gazing down from the top of the world- suddenly seeing a different city. Quaint and pretty and friendly and fair, seen from the top of the world._ " Innocently, he waves Ivan over; beckoning him to approach and sit. _"When my outlook is a glum one and I need a kinder point of view, look how quick it can become one with someone like you to show me life from the top of the world. Nothing needs righting and no one needs pity. Thanks for bringing me into the air and giving me Paris unfurled, here at the top of the world."_ The two enjoy a quiet moment together, Alfred sitting and Ivan standing close by.

It is...nice. Yes, nice being together like this. The shame of Ivan's misdeeds melt away with every smile directed his way, with every relaxed sigh. Ivan even feels so bold to inch closer to Alfred. His eyes fix onto the tanned hand placed just beside the boy's- He looks away. This is wrong. Yes it is nice but it is still wrong. Ivan cannot have these feelings for Alfred! He is a boy! And a gypsy! If his Master saw him now-

_"Why are you standing like a statue? Dummkopf!"_

Ivan jumps at the sound and sight of his friends. This...this could not be happening. He left them inside! They are statues, unable to move without his help! And yet here they are- here they come.

_"Come on Ivan! Like, say something!"_

_"You're with Alfred!"_

_"Yeah that Alfred!"_

_"And you're totally alone!"_

**_"At the top of the world!"_ **

Even Toris is there! He is supposed to be the level-headed one! Ivan will have to have a serious discussion when they are alone. He moves to usher them back inside before Alfred could see them...if he could see them. Quickly they move. Gliding past Ivan, they swarm around Alfred; observing the boy in his blissfully unaware state and entice Ivan to join him.

_"He looked at you..."_

_"Like right at you..."_

_"And he didn't scream-"_

_"Or faint-"_

_"Or loose his feed! Kesesese!"_

Ivan will also have to place Gilbert in the corner of shame. A place the crude gargoyle visits far too often.

_**"What more proof that he likes you could anyone possibly need?"** _

_"He totally wants you!"_

_"What are you waiting for?"_

_"Please don't waste this precious chance."_

**_"Come one Ivan! Do something!"_ **

_"Your Master's gone!"_

_"And, like, here's a cutie for romance."_

_"Ev'ry curve so well curled."_

Ivan face-palms to hide the shame and desire of his cheeks as Gilbert pantomimes his hands over Alfred's figure. Yes that crass gargoyle will have to face extra time in the corner of shame.

**_"At the top of the world!"_ **

Ivan sighs and sits beside Alfred, resigning himself to this awkward conversation. Fortunately Alfred has not seen or heard any of his friends. The boy does take notice of Ivan's presence and gives him another magnificent smile. Yes, Ivan is more than willing to put up with his friends' embarrassing company if it meant staying by Alfred's side for a few moments.

* * *

_Gazing down from the top of the world,_

_Why are you standing like a statue made of stone?!_

_Suddenly seeing a different city._

_Come one Ivan, Say something!_

_Quaint and pretty and friendly and fair,_

_You're with Alfred! Yes, your Alfred! And you're alone-_

_Seen from the top of the world._

_At the top of the world!_

_When my outlook is a glum one,_

_He looked at you- Right at you_

_And I need a kinder point of view,_

_And he didn't scream or faint or loose his feed_

_Look how quick it can become one,_

_What more proof that he likes you, could anyone possibly need?_

_With someone like you._

_He wants you!_

_To show me life from the top of the world,_

_What are you waiting for? Don't waste this precious chance!_

_Nothing needs righting and no one needs pity._

_Come on Ivan, Do something!_

_Thanks for bringing me into the air,_

_Your Master's gone and here's someone made for romance!_

_And giving me Paris unfurled._

_Like, say something romantic!_

_That's awesome and fitting!_

_Tis making us frantic!_

_The seconds are, like, totally flitting!_

_See how the clock can tick._

_Ugh! We may take up knitting!_

**_Please take our advice here!_ **   
**_We have to entice here!_ **   
**_We don't mind admitting, we want to throw rice here!_ **

"Al...Alf..." Ivan mutters from behind his scarf; his self-doubt dripping from every letter.

**_Oh well, we guess silence will have to suffice here..._ **

Ivan rips his scarf from his mouth. Thinking of his Master, he makes the worst scowl imaginable and directs it at his three friends. Finally the trio leave Ivan and Alfred to their living landscape of a sunset in peace and privacy. "Alfred," The boy turns to him and smiles; bright eyes conveying his undivided attention. "It is nice here with you." Ivan reaches out to take Alfred's hand in his, but again that rightful yet damned self-depreciating behavior of his causes hesitance. Instead, he lowers he hand to the cold and stone-hard perch where it belongs. "The two of us sitting..."

Alfred leans in and places his hand atop Ivan's. Again there is a warmth and gentleness that Ivan use to believe would forever be denied to him. _"The two of us sitting..."_

 ** _"The two of you sitting..."_** Again the gargoyles creep. This time however, their presence is unnoticed by the pair too far absorbed in one another.

**_On Top of the World!_ **

* * *

"No! No! No!" Comes a loud and high voice from the doorway. Peter stamps his foot on the floor. Hot bursts of angry breathes blow from his puffed and burning cheeks. "No kissing!" One tiny hand points chastisingly at Alfred, the other stays curled on his bony hip. "You are not supposed to kiss anyone except me and Mattie!"

"Peter!"

"And you!" Peter storms towards Ivan. "If you want to sleep with my brother, kiss him, or see him naked again, you have to pay for it first!"

 _"Peter!"_ Alfred shrills. He and Ivan jump to their feet. Their hands recoil from one another's' touch and their gazes avert- too shocked to acknowledge one another even. Alfred wrings his hands. "I-I'm sorry Ivan." Alfred does try to be sincere regarding the encounter, but shame and panic force his eyes to dart every way possible other than Ivan's face. "It was...thank you for showing me the view."

"Da..." Ivan twiddles with his scarf. "L-let me show you out."

"No, no! I got it. Allons-y Peter."

Ivan follows after the brothers- fretting along the way- making sure that they stay clear of any obstacles or do not fall down any steps as they struggle amongst themselves.

When they leave, Ivan silently wishes the brothers a pleasant evening and closes his door. _"And you wanted to hide from him."_ Ivan turns to face Toris. Never has his friend ever had such a proud look; from his arched brow to his quirky grin, Toris' entire demeanor radiates with self-satisfaction. Ivan snorts. "You should be quiet, Toris."

 _"That was so totes romantic!"_ Feliks says with a smile wide enough to crack his lips. _"Holding each others' hands, gazing into each others' eyes...Tis like you two were star-crossed lovers!_ " An ecstatic squeal peels from him. _"Oh my God! Is my paint, like, running?"_

 _"I can hear the wedding bells already,"_ Toris says. His dream filled sighs drowning out the sounds of Ivan's shock. _"I wonder though...would Alfred be able to wear white?"_

"Toris!?"

_"I don't know, like, I was thinking more of a snow or an ivory. I mean, like, with his complexion-"_

_"Tis not what I mean, Feliks!"_

Ivan buries his nose in his scarf once more. His hands fly from the tassels to his ears. "We should not be talking about Alfred this way!"

 _"Kesesesese! Kesesesese!"_ Gilbert wraps his arms around his abdomen, his tail wriggling and twitching in unbridled delight. _"Alfred is still Alfred. Who cares how many sheets he has rolled around in!"_

Ivan glares at his marble friend. "No! That is one too many rude comment from you, comrade." Ivan grabs Gilbert. For a moment he pauses, expecting the gargoyle to move away as a mirage again. Relieved to have his mind under control, Ivan lifts the protesting statue. "You are going to the corner of shame! And you shall be staying there for a long time!"

_"You were thinking the same thing!"_

"And no talking!"

_"Tch! Arschloch!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clear a few things up that aren't exactly stated in the narrative: During the flashback Peter is 3, Alfred is 12, and Matthew is 17. Also I wanted Alfred's interaction with Ivan in this chapter to parallel his interaction with Ludwig in the previous chapter.
> 
> They both get a love song!
> 
> I'd like to that you guys for reading and especially for giving kudos and comments! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter and I'll see you all in the next one!


	14. Belle est la Chanson de Notre Dame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally written and posted on FFN in 2015. Back then, I had gone from a 2 month break between chapters to a 7 month break. Again, the motivation just wasn't there. I had the motivation to write but I wanted to focus on something happier- something a bit removed from reality. I really got into fairytales because they were simpler and sweeter.
> 
> While I wasn't motivated to write this, I did not want to give up! There was still a story that I wanted to tell but I couldn't bring myself to tell it. Both my job and my living situation was stressful and uncertain, and my dad had once again stolen a lot of money from me and there was just nothing that I could do about it. During the second half of this seven month hiatus I was able to get in touch with a friend and she had really helped me out. She invited me to move in with her which I was very grateful for and my health both physically and mentally was getting better.
> 
> One day I had been rereading Kat With Shamrocks' version, just going back to the parts that I really liked in no particular order when the inspiration had struck! Next thing I knew, I was writing and writing and writing and then I had to cut the chapter short. More was supposed to happen but when I saw how much had been typed, I figured I would just split the intended chapter in half.
> 
> Enjoy!

_**Belle est la Chanson de Notre Dame...** _

And so another week passes over Paris and all of her people, and Notre Dame stands strong governing over all. Events of the past flit away; minds and memories like bees moving from one flower to the next. The gossip moves away from the tale of a darling gypsy child taming and tending to a criminal beast, to that of a mysterious angel blessing Paris with the gift of song through the everlasting voice of Notre Dame herself. At the times of the day when neither Day nor Night fully reign over the skies- when the two simultaneously intermingle while staying rigid within their borders and God's glory could be shown through all of His heavenly works. The mysterious times of the sun, the moon, the stars, and every color held within the compass of the sky shining brightly through is when the music would ring out loud and clear to the hearts of every man, woman, and child. There is no sadness, no pain, and even death staves off for but a few moments during the miracle hour of ethereal melodies...

Only happiness...

How foolish would those people feel if they knew the truth? If they knew where the happiness came from? And the belle...beauty...that inspires it?

* * *

Much of Ivan's life has revolved around Notre Dame's bells. As a boy he would run and play with them along the eaves and the beams of the rafters. When he grew a little and before his small, childish hope of growing up to venture out and help others just like his Master and caretaker were shattered, he would test his bravery, speed, and nimble skill by swinging from their clappers. Before his stone friends became a part of his world, whenever he was sad or frightened he could duck under the lip and into the mouth of the largest bell and shut everyone and everything out. Also, when he became big and strong enough, Ivan was bestowed the wonderful task of ringing, cleaning, and caring for the bells- the heart, soul, and voice of Notre Dame. And poor Ivan, who never has been considered terribly intelligent by anyone- definitely not by Minister Kirkland- may or most likely may not have known it, but often times his own emotions reverberated through when his hands join with those belonging to the bells and Notre Dame herself.

For years he has humbly held the honor of being Notre Dame's bell-ringer; the key to her quintessence and inner workings. For years Notre Dame has sung solemnly yet sincerely as a mother to her children. Over the past week however, there has been a livelier spirit in her vocals! With gaily energy she sings at odder and more frequent times! There is no choir in all of Paris- no not even in her own halls- that could match her talent. And if Ivan, poor Ivan, had known that people were using the world belle...beautiful...to describe his music, he would string them up by their necks and laugh at them as they die alone for being too foolish to not see what true beauty is.

To Ivan, true beauty is in the meek knock of a "hello"...

It is in warm hands blossoming with flowers of kindness and happiness in each act...

It is in eyes shining with invitation to chat- or at the very least share a greeting- and smiles of "À tout à l'heure"...

To Ivan belle...beautiful...is the word that should only and could only be used for Alfred and the light and life his visits, however brief, bring. At times when either of his brothers were around, he could only spare a "Bonjour," before leaving. Other times he would ramble about the things new to him here in Notre Dame. He would skip about and talk of his anxious older brother, of Peter and Kumajirou's antics, of the silly Italian priests, and of...roses...of all things...

But Ivan could listen to anything, even hexes and blasphemy, should they ever fall from Alfred- his Alfred's- lips...

It is too early still, but sunset is indeed close and Ivan has dedicated more time and effort than usual in the maintaining, cleaning, and polishing of his beloved bells that they were crying to sing out! Like children eager to show off new clothes and shoes! If anyone asks, Ivan would admit to feeling a small measure of guilt for being carried away and untimely with his most noticeable of responsibilities, but after the first resound- a harmony of the hard hit and soft echoes of notes- he could never say he regretted it. Minister Kirkland has certainly disciplined most of Ivan's savagery out of him; make no mistake regarding such! But whatever wildness was left has been trained and suppressed; only coming out during times of his greatest pleasure...bell-ringing. Oh, how Ivan climbs and jumps and swings from instrument to instrument! His eyes flash with fire! And his mouth froths in animal frenzy! The little ones, he rocks as one would a babe in their cradle. The larger ones, he pushes like children on swings. The largest of all, he could only toll on and he would cry out with her as she endured the treatment even in her old age. And in these moments, Ivan could not tell what is floor and what is ceiling. He is intoxicated with happiness and purpose.

Lately however, a new sensation has come with his bells as well; either because of or to give him his vigor. Moments within his savage symphony, the sun glides low enough to peek into the bell tower. When the white hot rose in the sky shows its' face to Ivan, its' petals blow away to reveal Alfred...but not his Alfred...only an illusion...

And he dances naked before Ivan's soul, chasing away fatigue. Though Ivan knows it is a sin to dream and even worse to watch, he could never bring himself to see the vision as wrong. It is far too innocent like a lamb frolicking freely in Eden! But Ivan does not know if it is a trick of the devil to give him a taste of the torment awaiting him in hell, or trick of God reminding him that belle...beauty...would always be in sight but never in his grasp. Either way, Ivan knows that he could never pray to Notre Dame- never confess to these visions, these passions. Just as the sun leaves the tower, the singing moves from the bells to Ivan's muscles, and the dancing sunshine pirouettes close enough for Ivan to want and yearn for his fingers to run through the honey hair before smiling and flying away; untouched as a holy dove...

And Ivan is left both exhausted and energized...

The monster inside sated and the man ashamed...

Notre Dame's song of love and longing lost to his wayward soul...

When warm-hearted hands knock a curious, "Hello?"

Ivan climbs down to the floor just in time to see Alfred and Peter. Absentmindedly he fiddles with his scarf and gives them a shy smile.

Peter narrows his eyes. "You still owe us money..." He pouts. "I'm _still_ the big brother today, and I say that you are not allowed to see Alfie until you pay up!"

Over the little one's head Ivan and Alfred share a glance. Alfred shrugs and shakes his head and Ivan cannot help but see him as a mother humoring an stubbornly outlandish child. Before stepping further into the open, aglow with the setting sun, Ivan nervously tugs his scarf over his mouth and hides his eyes behind a curtain ashen hair. "I am sorry but I do not have any money," he says.

Peter eyes him curiously. "Then what do you have?" He puffs out his chest and crosses his arms. "I am a bargaining man," and Alfred has to stifle his giggles.

"Désolé..." Alfred breathes. "Je suis tellement désolé..."

"I make small figures...would you like to see them?" And at that, Peter is instantly won over. The Little Paris display is not easy to ignore. Especially for Peter, who has only been able to fantasize about having such toys! To have long-lasting figurines like these, one either has to be skilled or rich- and Peter is neither of those. As Peter- eyes wide and smile bright- gleefully enjoys the small wooden carvings, Ivan takes pride in the boy's enthusiasm and Alfred's approval. Excited but nervous, he slowly inches to his latest creations set aside to dry. "These ones are new..." It takes great will to keep his hands from the scarf tassels. "M-maybe...you would like to have them?" And the answer is yes. Undoubtedly yes! Fanatically yes! Peter did not look for permission from Mother Brother nor did he wait for Ivan's slow and clumsy hands to fully open. Bouncing with eagerness and just a touch of disbelief, Peter snatches up four carvings made in his family's likeness. There is one of Matthew caught in the middle of giving a scolding, one of Alfred enveloped in dance, one of Peter perfectly posed in mid-jump with a proud fist stretching to the sky, and of course Kumajirou sitting with half of a silvery fish sticking comically out of his muzzle.

"C'est bon!" Peter cries.

Alfred too marvels at the details; far more intricate than most of the other figures and obviously made with much care. Alfred gazes softly into Ivan's tense eyes. "You are a surprising person, Ivan." Ivan melts into relaxation and silently the two draw closer to one another; enchanted with each other's presence in the rich and mysterious light of dusk.

"Yeah, and lucky too." Peter says, disrupting the moment. "You have all this room to yourself!"

"It is not just me." Ivan shuffles back a step. "There are statues- gargoyles..." Ivan gestures one hand to Gilbert; out of the corner of shame but not placed too far from it. "And of course the bells." With his second hand, he waves to the glinting friends resting over them. And even though it is impossible- this Ivan knows- he could almost feel three sets of stony hands gently pushing him closer. "Would you...like to see them?" He twists his fingers in his scarf again.

"Yes! Of course!" Alfred beams. "We would love to! Wouldn't we, Peter?"

"No!..." but Alfred pulls him along anyway. To his surprise, Ivan's place is perfect for adventurous play. Along the beams he would spread his arms and run; the distance from the ground made him feel like he was flying! Even though he knows- just knows- that he could make the leap if he tries, he lets Alfred carry him whenever a stretch of space appears.

Happy to share in another of his passions, Ivan joyously introduces his guests. "That one is Gabriel." He points out. "Then there are the twins, Maurice and Marcel. Ah! Over there is Little Jean-Marie and her sister, Anne Geneviève. Then there is Étienne and Denis, the troublemakers. And that one is Benoît-Joseph."

Alfred places a palm on the face of the largest one he can find. "And who is this one?" He shivers slightly from the cold metal.

"I call her, Mary." Ivan says gravely. "She is old but works very hard."

"...Hello Mary..." Alfred whispers.

"HELLOOOOOOO!" Peter shouts from Mary's mouth. His voice and laughter bounces through the bell tower.

"She is very beautiful."

"Da..." Ivan breathes, never taking his eyes away from Alfred. "I think she likes you- _both of you_...that is." He coughs.

Eventually the group finds themselves outside and upon seeing Paris twinkling under the faint moon and stars, the sun now tucked under the earthen blankets, Peter drops his jaw, wonderstruck, and tucks his toys away before they have a chance to fall. Alfred sits along the edge and swoons, radiating with excitement and peace. Ivan shuffles closer to Alfred, his cheeks hot and bright with sun-drops, his fingers tangling within his scarf again, and his belly alive with worms and butterflies as he recalls their last encounter here.  
Alfred sighs. "I could stay up here forever."

"You could, you know!" Ivan hopefully pipes up. "You could even stay up here with me. You all could! I could make extra beds! There is more than enough room for you and your family."

"We can't..." Peter says, nuzzling into Alfred's chest.

"Yes you can! You have sanctuary."

"But not freedom..." Alfred lovingly combs his fingers through Peter's hair. "Merci, Ivan...but Monsieur Kirkland was right..."

Both Ivan and Peter's eyes widen, reflecting their surprise and curiosity. "What did that jerk-face say to you?"

In a woeful undertone he replies, "...Gypsies don't do well inside stone walls..."

The brothers wrap their arms around each other...

"But you are not like other gypsies." Ivan tries to offer some comfort. "They are... _evil_..."

Alfred slowly faces Ivan's direction; shock and confusion clearly shining in his eyes. "What are you talking about? Who told you that?"

"My Master..." Embarrassed, Ivan slumps to the floor.

"And you believe him?"

"Of course! Maybe...I should though...He did raise me after all." Ivan draws his knees up to his chest. "My own family tried to kill me when I was just a babe," he mutters. Ivan jumps when, for perhaps the first time he could tell, he feels an actual hand firmly and consolingly rubbing his back. He turns to see Alfred with a reassuring look; one hand massaging soothing circles in his back the other holding a calm but cheery looking Peter in his lap. Ivan continues. " Then my Master found me...He saved my life and took me in when no one else would." Ivan buries his face in his scarf. "I am a monster, you know..."

"Did he tell you that?"

Ivan does not answer...

What is worse is that he does not need to answer...

Alfred places Peter aside and leaves him with a gentle kiss upon his temple before turning back to Ivan. He stretches towards the pitiful giant with slow but caring and familiar movements. Ivan's head is cold, heavy, and awkward in Alfred's hands. "Look at me," Alfred demands; and summer sky eyes meet violet oceans twinkling with raindrops. Ivan's breath stills as Alfred, with a sincerity and tenderness that Ivan is wise enough to know is underserving for the likes of him, brushes his tears away and combs fingers through his locks. Oh! How Ivan knows it is wrong! A sin against God to wish the angel in his arms! To listen to his own beastly nature and covet this mother-like creation! To drag down and sully this belle...beauty...before him with his love! But as the two drift closer together...pulled by an unknown but not entirely unwelcome force...Ivan cannot deny that though an imperfect fit, it is still...natural...and good somehow...

Then suddenly, the angel and mother is gone; replaced with a blushing spirit of a child. "Give me your hand!" Alfred lunges for Ivan's hand. "Come on, just let me see!" It takes two of Alfred's hands to untangle one of Ivan's from his scarf and pull it to his soft and warm bosom. The grip is strong but kind and serene and Ivan's heart flutters with the butterflies in his stomach as, instead of shuddering with disgust, Alfred- his Alfred- merely opens the palm, unconcerned of his scars, marks, and callouses. The boy licks his lips and traces a finger over his palm; leaving a tiny trail of feathery kisses from the digit. "My mother taught me how to read palms. See, this is your life line and it is long...hmm...oh, and this one means that you are shy. Peter? Do you see anything in Ivan?"

It takes a moment but after a few squints and facial contortions out of concentration, Peter comes up with an, "Oh! That one," he points to another line. "It means that you are stubborn."

Alfred laughs. "Just like you, right Peter?"

The little boy gawks. "I am NOT!" And Ivan smiles, feeling a little better.

Alfred hums. "That's funny..." Alfred eyes Ivan's palm curiously.

"What?" Ivan worries.

Alfred hovers closer to Ivan's hand, his eyelashes tickling against the upturned palm. "I don't see any..."

"What?! Any what?!" Ivan too lowers to his hand. His untrained eyes fruitlessly searching for an enigma.

"Monster lines..." And again their eyes meet.

Their faces close...

Their spaces intimate...

"Not a single one." He smiles.

Ivan tucks back into his scarf. A smile blossoming on his own face, he sees Alfred's hands still planted on his own.

"Now you look at me!" Alfred demands again, shoving his hand in Ivan's face. "Am I evil?"

"Nyet! Nyet!" Ivan sputters. In a panic, Ivan quickly seizes Alfred hand; safeguarding it within his own large, monstrous ones. "You are kind, and caring, and good!" Far too good, to Ivan...He strokes the dancer's hand, surprised to be trusted with the honor of holding it.

"And a gypsy..." Alfred- his Alfred- reminds him. "And maybe your master is wrong about the both of us."

The group turns back to admiring the view below. Now that the sun has gone, and the cold of night has set it, Peter settles back into Alfred's lap. Wrapped in Alfred's now untied hip scarf, he snuggles for warmth in Alfred's embrace. And maybe it is because there is no one else there? Maybe it is because Ivan is both closer and warmer than the stones or metal materials upon the rooftop? Or maybe it is for no reason other than the fact that he genuinely wants to? Alfred leans against Ivan's large frame and sighs contentedly. If it did not before, by that time Ivan's entire face and body become a red hot furnace. Oh how Ivan would love to wrap his arm tight around Alfred- his Alfred- and keep him close to his fever stricken heart. But how can he take solace and delight in such company on this night when guilt gnaws at him like furious dogs from hell? Once he has already transgressed against Alfred, yet thrice Alfred has shown him kindness unearned. How could he dare indulge in his own happiness when the cost is Alfred's freedom? Ivan makes his decision. He gazes one last time at Alfred- his Alfred. He brings one hand up- just one- to run through Alfred's golden curls but hesitates. He knows that God would not grant him the permission to initiate such intimacy and he can not risk tainting Alfred's soul by making a deal with Lucifer, so he brings his hand down and refuses to think of how wonderful Alfred- his Alfred- would feel. "You have helped me," he says. "Now it is my turn to help you."

"Ivan, what are you saying?"

Ivan stands up and nods in conviction. "I will help you escape."

Alfred shakes his head and snorts out a laugh. Upon seeing Ivan's steady smile and determined look, his demeanor changes. "Are you serious?"

Ivan holds his hand out for Alfred to take.

"No you cannot!" Peter exclaims. "Tis too dangerous! There are soldiers at every door!"

Ivan helps Alfred to his feet and guides him to the edge. "We will not be using a door..." He peers over the edge, unaware of the nervous shivers rushing down the brothers' backs.

Alfred looks at him warily. "You mean...climb down?"

"Da! You will carry him," Ivan gestures to Peter. "And I will carry you."

Alfred is still unsure. "Have you done this before?"

"...Da...once..."

Peter locks his arms and legs around Alfred...

Alfred wraps his arms around Peter...

Ivan brings one arm under Alfred's knees and cradles the brothers close to him with the other. He hesitates before jumping over. "Do not be afraid." Ivan leaps over, sacrificing the hand cradling Alfred's back to grab the head of a nearby gargoyle. As a result, the brothers lurch into a different position. Alfred's waist folds over Ivan's bicep, and while Peter is graced with the scenery of the night sky, Alfred is left gaping at the ground; a dizzying drop below them. The dancer screams. "The trick is to not look down." Ivan says.  
Alfred scoffs. "Now you tell me?!"

Ivan swings Alfred into a safer position on his back with Peter nestled between their two bodies; and for extra measure, Alfred wraps his legs around Ivan. The brothers lean closer against Ivan, pressing into his back, trying to meld into him as the giant hops from statue to statue. Peter keeps his eyes screwed shut while Alfred's grow wider with each jump. Then without warning, Ivan flies off of the tower! Alfred's voice leaves him as they fall, fall, fall with no favourable end insight when-

**(!)**

Ivan miraculously catches another gargoyle. His feet catch against the stone; stopping their bodies from crashing into the second tower. Down, down, down, he nimbly scales before leaping off yet again to catch on the slanted roof of the cathedral below. They stop. Bodies shaking with sudden energy of both thrill and fear, they take a moment to collect their wits. "Wow..." Alfred breathes. "You are amazing at this!"

"Really? Y-you think so?"

"Yeah..." Alfred smiles. "You are a great acrobat, dude!"

Ivan's reply is cut off when the sheet of soft metal underneath them gives away. Three voices scream as the metal sheet careens down the roof and down the steep slope of a flying buttress. Everyone's eyes widen as at the end of the trail, the sheet becomes airborne; shooting off like a magic carpet into the night! Ivan pushes off at the last moment and grabs the gargoyle head protruding from the buttress. In the excitement, Peter's legs became undone! The two brothers now only held together by the strength of their arms, find themselves positioned on opposite sides of Ivan's curled bicep; Peter dangling over the giant's back and Alfred tucked secure just under Ivan's chin. All three hold their breath as the soldiers pass underneath them. As soon as the men below are gone, Ivan lets go and drops to the lower roof below. He jumps down again and swings from a protruding statue into a large recess just above the ground where the statue of a saint watches over all. Ivan helps the brothers untangle themselves and settle on the free ground below. Little Peter takes small steps in circles in an attempt to right his breathing, heart, and vision. Alfred graces Ivan with a smile and hug. "Thank you," he whispers.  
Ivan holds him dearly and savors every second and detail of this precious moment. It would be easy- Oh! How it would be incredibly to easy, to leave the boy and carry Alfred- his Alfred- away...but it would not be right. So Ivan chooses to go against his own demonic nature at let Alfred be happy in freedom. "I will never forget you, Alfred." He breathes as they part. Imagine his surprise when a loving hand turns his cheek to vivacious blue eyes.

"Come with me!"

"What?"

"Please come with me...come with us to the Court of Miracles and leave your cruel master behind!"

"Nyet! Nyet!" Ivan, though he will miss it, takes Alfred's hand away from his face. "I cannot leave...I will not leave...not ever again."

Alfred pouts but slides closer to Ivan. "Fine! Then I will come to see you."

"Nyet! You absolutely cannot. My master would not allow it! And the soldiers could take you! And there is also your other brother-"

"After dark, I can come after dark!"

Ivan shakes his head vigorously. It is all up to him. He cannot endanger Alfred and his family more than they already were, especially not for his sake. If only Alfred could see proper reason! "But I have chores then too!" He pleads. "I must ring for evening mass, and then I clean the cloisters, and ring the vespers, and-" And in an instant, an impossibility happens. A seed of love and reverence is planted upon Ivan's cheek. His mind cooks itself in wonder how such a thing could happen. A kiss...a touch of Alfred's bow shaped lips...and it is chaste, and true, and belle...beautiful...all things Ivan has been told Alfred is not. "But whatever works for you will be fine, da?" Ivan smiles and retreats further into his scarf; his fingers entwining with the tassels.

Alfred reaches into his blouse and pulls out a woven talisman. He places it in Ivan's care, closing his fingers around it. "Take this," he says. "If you ever need sanctuary, just remember, when you wear this woven band, you hold the city in your hand."

The two share one last look in a silence that says far too much. "Go," whispers Ivan. "Go and promise..." Ivan's heart cracks. We wants to ask- beg even- for Alfred to come back to him but, "Promise you will be careful." He refuses to risk their lives any longer.

Alfred nods. "I will...I promise..."

Peter tugs at Alfred's skirt, and together the two race into the city shadows.

Ivan waits a moment...or...two...or three...long enough for them to vanish in the dark, long enough to know that they are safe, before climbing back up to his spacious and empty tower again. Just before vaulting over and up to the balcony below his tower, he spares one last look over the city. He smiles and touches- of all the places Alfred could have chosen to leave a kiss- his skin still alive with the electricity. He lifts his hand away and up to grab the rail when-

**(!)**

Something, or rather someone grabs him instead!

"Hallo. I am looking for the dancer boy named, Alfred." A stern voice announces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact! Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame is one of my favorite films! Not just favorite Disney films- favorite films period. But...yeah...it still has some problems. One of those problems being the gargoyles. Oh, how I hate how much they distract from this scene! Esmeralda and Quasimodo are having a nice moment and then the gargoyles just talk over it! I remember just being really miffed about that when I was writing this chapter.
> 
> I'd like to thank you all for taking the time to read this! And I'd like to especially thank everyone who has left a kudos and a comment! I really do hope that you enjoyed this chapter and I will see you all in the next one!


	15. Thoughtful Love & Vengeful Lust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally posted on FFN in 2017. That's right, about 14 months after the previous chapter. To be fair, I had started a new job that was FAR worse than my previous one and what little time I had off usually became dedicated to more pressing responsibilities. I remember that for a while, I would only have 1 day every two weeks off. And even then, I was usually helping out babysitting during the late afternoons and evenings. Shortly before this chapter was written, I had moved once again.
> 
> I was able to get a job interview within a few days of moving in and even though everything seemed to be working out, I had to wait for all of the paperwork and background stuff to clear though. But this all meant that for the first time in over a year, I actually had the time and energy to write! And of course, I ended up writing so much that I had to split the chapter again.
> 
> Enjoy!

_**Thoughtful Love & Vengeful Lust...** _

The Palais de Justice is dark and deserted; shadows cast everywhere and the light of the lanterns and candles seem distant and cold. The height of the vaulted ceilings stretch endlessly in the blackness where the ghosts of suffering and sorrow linger. Matthew knows he is a damned man as Judge Kirkland glares attentively at him- damned if he reacts in any way and damned if he is compliant. It is difficult, truly, to remain calm confined here as he is with only the Judge's hate as company. Obedient soldiers posted outside more than willing to spill his blood if he does not keep his senses.

"Tell me," Arthur breaks the silence but it is the clattering of sols and deniers that echoes in the dark. "What you can about the gypsy dancer-boy, Alfred."

"There is nothing to tell."

One of Arthur's mighty eyebrows twitches. Frustration flares from this nostrils, but he is all the same in control; a lion seeking for a chance to roar and devour. "You are often in his company, are you not? During my investigation, some have commented on the _closeness_ of your relation."

Matthew gulps as the Minister's eyes flash dangerously at him; Hungry flames smiling in his stare.

"Therefore, I believe that there is much for you to tell me." Arthur gestures to the coins faintly gleamingly on his desk. "You have my word not only as the highest authority in this city, but also as a gentleman that I shall make it worth your while."

Matthew's stare flickers between the coins and the irritatingly proud smirk on Minister Kirkland's face. Oh how he wishes to lay a curse upon that old man! To insult both his family and his integrity in this way! But Matthew knows that he would not get very far should he act without careful consideration of the outcomes such an action would bring him. He must be watchful and he must beware. "I may not know exactly what you are up to, but if you believe that I could ever place a price on my brother then-"

"So he is your brother," Arthur muses. He steps slowly towards the fireplace. His heavy robes adding a touch of grace to his rigid movements. "Though you could have fooled me." A deceptively frail looking hand reaches out from the inky hold of his robes and latches onto one of the log halves beside the hearth. "In fact, I would daresay that you have fooled a number of shopkeepers and the charitable children of God with the rouse of your... _little family_." Carelessly he tosses the wood into the fire; the resulting blaze sharpening the teeth of the surrounding shadows. "I find it odd, however. You are old enough to breed I suppose and have several hell spawn of your own...Why cling so tightly to your brother?"

Matthew instructs himself to deepen his breathes. Unfortunately he can only count so high- the number needed to alleviate his anger alludes him.

* * *

_Matthew had been determined. He had always admired his mother; her determination, her courage, her passion. He almost felt sorry for the fools who would try to charm her into their beds with meaningless gifts, shallow words, and empty promises. He could not deny that her temper was quick or that her ire was zealously violent- he had seen both go against his dominating father. But her love for her children had been undeniable and unfathomable, which is what made her death all the more overwhelming for the three boys she left behind._

Alfred did not need to see this and Matthew could not honestly say that he wanted to do this. It is only out of love and obligation that he was able to hack away at the earth, careful not to disturb the roots of the oak tree before him. Their mother deserves the best burial possible, and the roots would trap her heart to keep her spirit from following after them. After the last fight with their father, she had been firm in her plans to see her children safely taken to Paris. Of course her soul would try to carry out her responsibility- physical body or not!

"You can rest now..." He says after hours of silence. Alfred has already given his goodbyes through snot, sniffles, and hiccups. Matthew had to send him back to their camp some time ago. Alfred had approached with Peter swaddled tightly in one arm, the other carrying fresh picked wildflowers. And he had been so brave! Matthew had been tense and terrified- he was not ready and knew that he could not be ready for when the loss and heartache would finally overwhelm the child's body. It had finally happened after Alfred laid the preciously gathered bouquet over their mother's still heart. His wet sobbing had broken into a loud and sudden wailing; a song of anguish and woe that would pierce the soul of every living thing nearby, even to the very hearts of the rocks.

And Matthew had stood aside; stupid and afraid and unsure of what to do.

"Already I have failed you," he says. Thinking about those two small faces red and distorted in heartache- weeping, frightened, and at a loss of what to do...

Matthew sighs. He should have done something! Reach out and offer some kind and hopeful words even if he did not feel them. " _I will not fail you again._ " He shudders. The promise more so for his own ears than for the silent body beneath his feet.

The air that night had been quiet and still. Their shelter large and empty without their mother inside holding them all together. She was the resourceful and unyielding root of their family, Matthew the bendable but unbreakable trunk, Alfred the wild branches free in the sky giving relief to those below, and Peter- even whilst in the belly- the fruit bearing their future. Now that they were uprooted, their family needs a new tree and they would each have to take on new roles that neither of them had any experience with.

Peter lays in a basket; softly whimpering having cried himself to sleep. Alfred minds the pot where a few tubers, onion, and wild carrots are boiling. There would be no meat but from the smell Matthew could tell that Alfred had added some herbs at some point. Most likely they were found during his quest for burial flowers. The last thing Matthew notices, is the hissing kettle crying tears that he believed had dried up throughout the day. "Alfie," Tiredness seeps from Matthew's voice and spills upon his body. "Did you take your tonic?"

"Noooo," Alfred whines. Ten little fingers twists themselves into the hem of his skirt. A gift given by their mother once she begun to instruct him in the ways of household management and child care. An early sign; she had been preparing her successor. "I do not like that stuff, Mattie." Glassy blue eyes stare into the heat before them. "It hurts me..."

Matthew sighs. He knows Alfred speaks of the hurting of his chest. His brother would fight their mother on this too. But he does not have her commanding voice or kind hands to smarten Alfred up or coax him into compliance. "Alfie," he groans. "You know better!"

Red clover, fenugreek, fennel, and anise. Cover it and let it steep. Drink one cup in the morning and one at night; those were the instructions they had been given. Alice was a clever woman after all. Their father had called it her least attractive trait.

"Why do I have to do this?!" Alfred whinges. "Can't you do this instead?" His words choked on sobs and spit. As his tears shine in the dim glow of the fire, he looks too weary- too heartbroken for one so tender of only nine years.

"Come here, Alfie."

"No!"

"Alfred..."

"I refuse!"

Matthew sharply inhales. Attempting to maintain some control, he orders as evenly and softly as he can through clenched teeth. "Get. Over. Here. Now."

"You cannot make me!" Alfred cries. His voice growing louder and higher with immature hysterics. "I-I have had more than enough of that icky stuff-"

To say that Matthew and Alfred never got along would be a tragic exaggeration. True, as all siblings they do not always act in harmony; seedlings of the same flower will struggle amongst themselves just as much as they would against the weeds. But Matthew had always found it difficult to traverse the distance their age differences created. How could Matthew expect to reason with a child? How could Alfred hope to have the insight of a maturing man?

The ensuing argument no doubt filled with words sharpened from sorrow and poisoned with pain, dies on their tongues as newborn shrieks penetrate the air.

Matthew takes a deep breath.

Away from the fire where the ashes and cinders spit more of the worlds cruelty, Matthew gathers Peter from the basket and beckons Alfred to sit and meld into his embrace. It is a hollow comfort as these are new waters for both Matthew and Alfred. "Peter needs a mother."

Alfred shrugs. "Maman isn't here," he says with a sniffle.

The sour bile of frustration burns as Matthew forces it back down his throat. "Maman knew that her time with us would be cut short. That is why she made you drink this- why she taught you so much about child rearing. Peter needs a mother."

"But..." Alfred brings his hands to his lap, wringing one before the other. "What if..." A naïve attempt to squeeze his worries away. "What if I...mess up?"

"You won't," Matthew gently reassures. "Because I will be here." Matthew takes another deep breath. "I am sorry." He pulls Alfred closer, careful of babe nestled betwixt them. "I will not abandon you or send you away like I did before. You will not be alone in this. D'accord?"

Alfred sniffles. "D'accord?"

Matthew places Peter in Alfred's arms. "He is quiet now, but he will need to nurse soon."

And for once Alfred did not put up a fight.

Sliding his chemise from his small shoulders reveals the loosely bound cloth wrapped around Alfred's chest. Lavender petals spilling to the earth as Matthew undoes the wrapping. They ran out of lavender oil some time ago and this was a desperate attempt to keep his mother's work from being undone. Where the flat chest of an unripen child once lay, are two small mounds of soft flesh swollen with milk. It did feel wrong at first, but eventually Matthew came around to their mother's understanding. They are to make their way to Paris; delays could not be afforded. It would be too desperate of a risk to constantly seek help, and honestly, how many mothers would be willing to help them? With Matthew's body undergoing changes of its' own, the choice of who would bear such a responsibility had been decided by fate.

"Thank you." It is the loudest Matthew's voice had become that day. "Thank you for being brave about this."

Peter latches onto Alfred's teat for the first time and immediately begins to suckle from the only mother he will know.

From the confused expression of discomfort, it is obvious that Alfred needed to hear those words.

_Exhaustion had worn all three brothers out eventually and they slept in a position that would soon become familiar to them. Matthew held his brothers in his arms. Alfred curled in Matthew's embrace, his own arms secure around the babe they would successfully pass off as his son. And Peter twitching between the two, soothed to sleep by warmth, heartbeats, and lullabies. And Matthew honored his promise to always protect his family._

* * *

"I am all that they have." Matthew breathes.

Silence stretches in the space between the past and present where minds and spirits wander; blinking between the light and the dark.

"I may not know what you are up to," Matthew chances a step closer to the fireplace, feeling stronger with Kumajirou in his arms hiding his trembling hands. "But if you are suggesting that my family has carried out our business dishonestly-"

Arthur snorts. At once his head twists suddenly, Matthew is certain his neck must have snapped from the abrupt motion. His face once set in contempt distorts into an expression so shrewd and sharp, Matthew felt ice crackle and slither through his soul. "I have no care or concern what you an your ill-bred ilk consider _'honest'_." He sneers. The daunting firelight corrupting his visage into a wild snarl waiting for the right moment to break free of its' control and strike. "My concern is of the fugitive that has stolen into Notre Dame. He cannot stay in there forever." Eyes crinkled into a lion's smile slide to meet Matthew's. "When I last petitioned those foolish, pasta-gluttonous priests I was informed that they were unwilling part a mother from their child. Which was quite baffling to hear, if you can imagine."

Kumajirou sounds a low growl.

Matthew wishes he had the courage and the volume to do the same.

"What I find perplexing, is that it is not only those Italian priest- but truthfully those two would fall for whatever tearful lies, or trickery, or deceit you have conjured-"

"Tis not a lie!"

"Know your place! Gypsy!" Arthur seethes.

Perhaps it is the fear of disappearing into the darkness, of being dragged down to the Conciergerie to rot and bellow in endless torture that keeps Matthew from fleeing, but there is no force- no entity powerful enough to still the quaking of his body; the rattling of his bones. A sickening crunch echoes in Matthew's ears. The gnashing of his teeth; a dam holding back the blood and anger bubbling in his heart. "I know it seems strange," he starts slowly. "But just as he is every bit my brother, Alfred is also a mother to Peter."

Wails of mourning pains of the past ring through the air...

"He did not birth him, but he did nurse him and still cares for him as a mother should. How could you call such love deceitful?"

Arthur listens in silence. His eyes ablaze in a wild frenzy. His hand, gnarled and mangled by the flare and the shadows of the ominous firelight, clutches at the precious trinket hidden under his fabrics; An action that does not go unnoticed by Matthew. "Have you touched him?" he whispers.

"Eh?!" Vexation swarms in Matthew's mind, clouding his thoughts and strangling his already weak mannered voice. "What- what was that?"

Without warning, the serpentine Judge strikes. His hand seizing Matthew's arm in fury. And Matthew...poor Matthew, so startled as nails and pressure perforates through his coat spreading pain to his muscle and bone, drops Kumajirou as panic and horror engulfs him.

"Have you done that!" Arthur rages. "Are you indeed so unholy- so abandoned by God! That you would touch that whore?! Lay your hands upon him!"

"Maple no!" cries Matthew. "Is that why you brought me here?! To- to accuse me of...Maple! I could never- My brother- _both_ of my brothers are untouched, if that is what disturbs you!"

"So," continues Arthur. His voice dripping with abhorrence and deep scrutiny. "You presume to tell me that such a creature has not been approached by any man?"

Matthew repeats his confirmation to his brother's maiden virtue. Suspicious as to why anyone would want to know of such but wise enough to remain humble and hold his tongue in the lion's den.

Again the two are cast into the silence, dancing between the sharp shadows and the dominating firelight. Whatever spell had been cast over the Minister of Justice finally breaks. His eyes lose their intensity, his grip falls, and sometime between the past and the present, reputable Judge Arthur Kirkland collects his grace and dignity. "As I have told you," he starts. His voice low and oddly quiet, taking on a tone rich and smooth- clear as a sky after a dangerous storm. He turns back to his desk where papers and coins lay about. "I have taken the task of ridding Notre Dame of your brother. Though I have yet to obtain the proper authority to do such, you must know that he cannot stay there forever."

It is difficult for Matthew to see, but the sound of coins sliding into a leather pouch is unmistakable; particularly while they jingle and clank.

"It would be best if we could resolve this issue quickly and quietly, would you not agree?"

It comes unexpectedly, and once again Matthew is thankful for Kumajirou. The loyal and dependable bear leaps through the air, his fur blinding in the light. When he lands in Matthew's arms, Matthew notices the coin purse trapped between the cub's jaws.

"I am a gentleman of my word." Arthur answers to Matthew's stupor. "Compensation for the information you have given me." He continues. "There is more. Enough for you and your family to not need worry yourselves though perhaps not enough to satisfy your greed."

Matthew wishes for the strength to pry that coin purse from Kuma's teeth, and even more the courage to toss it back to Minister Kirkland.

"Surely you would hate to see the boy forced out of sanctuary...dragged out by his hair...tossed down the steps of the cathedral...a rope around that beautiful neck of his..." Arthur trails off with a whisper. "But if he were to come to me willingly...perhaps I could drop the charges raised against him and we could work out some sort of arrangement."

Matthew knows not how he made it out of the Palais de Justice alive and with no bodily harm. But as he wonders the streets of Paris...

As he is swept in a torrent of cuddles, squeezes, and giggles...

As he weeps and rains tears and kisses upon Alfred and Peter...

As he makes haste of their clever escape- oh joy for such cleverness!- and hurries as fast as their legs can fly them out of the Île de la Cité...

He understands that the sickening grin of the Minister of Justice will haunt him for the rest of his living days.

* * *

"Hallo. I am looking for the dancer boy named, Alfred." A stern voice announces. "Have you seen him?"

Ivan blinks and blinks again. Before him stands a blond soldier in brilliant golden armor and immediately Ivan hates him. Hates his handsome features, hates his charm, hates his bravado! The Captain of the Guard- how dare he! How dare this soldier come and try to take Alfred- his kind Alfred- whom Ivan has vowed to protect from even his own selfish desires! Ivan blinks again. The man flees and the monster awakens with a wild and ferocious growl.

Narrowed eyes flash and Ivan lunges forward. "No soldiers!" Breaking himself from the soldier's hold, he uses both hands along with the power that could only come from his laborious life as a bell-ringer attempting to reach ecclesiastical absolution, to shove the soldier back. Taking advantage of the soldier's poor stance, Ivan swings his fist. Instead of the satisfying feel of skin and stubble connecting with his knuckles, the sound of bones breaking perhaps a jaw snapping loose and going slack as blood, spit, and teeth spew, Ivan is dismayed, irritated, and even a touch fearful when the captain brings a fist of his own up to make a shield of his gauntlet. The soldier is truly skilled and carries a great deal of discipline within him, but if his quiet grunt of pain and the spark of fear in his eyes convey anything it is that not even the mighty Captain is capable to tackling a monster on his own. Ivan's lips curl, exposing his repulsive fang-like teeth. Over his scarf his expression stretches into a macabre smile.

"Calm down," Ludwig orders but there is no reasoning with a monster.

No soldiers!" Ivan repeats. He snatches a torch, swinging it savagely- forcing the soldier to retreat into the stairwell. "Sanctuary! Get out!" He sweeps the torch low. If the soldier will not leave of his own will, Ivan has no misgivings over forcing him to tumble out of Notre Dame.

Thinking quickly, Ludwig draws his sword and parries the attack; a difficult feat in the narrow stairwell. "I am not here to fight you!"

"Then go!" Ivan brings the torch back down. His aim overhead, hoping to crush the Captain's skull.

Ludwig blocks the torch, careful of the embers falling onto his cuirass. "All I want is to-"

"I said go!" Pushing again, Ivan succeeds in sending the soldier down several steps.

"I mean him no harm."

Ludwig's patience might have been wearing thin, but Ivan has none for his rival. A predominant roar that thunders through the stair tower is the only warning he gives before launching his most aggressive attack. Madness consumes him! He brandishes his torch- creating a wall of feral flames!

It all comes to an end when Ludwig brings his sword up- striking against the torch, creating a groove in the wall to drive both weapons into. Ivan uses his free hand to keep Ludwig in place, holding him by the collar. A tense hush falls over both men. Their nostrils flaring, steaming puffs of anger and hostility passing between them.

"Why come here?" Ivan rasps. His eyes widen in horror, seeing the burn of desire glow on Ludwig's face, before narrowing again; Concentrating the intensity of his rage.

"I am here to see Alfred."

"And if he does not wish to see you?"

Ludwig quirks an eyebrow at that but ultimately is forced to accept the fact that tonight will be a lonely one for him. "Then give him this for me." Ludwig presents a rose. The notion that Alfred, his bride- _promised to him by God! their union recognized by a smashed pitcher!_ \- would turn him away, is absurd. Laughable even! Every night Ludwig would come to whisk Alfred away from the excessively vigilant eye of his elder brother. They would steal away to the very chapel where their unofficial wedding was held where Ludwig would present him with a new rose. So far he has managed to deliver seven- one for each night since their nuptial. A feat he himself considered impressive due to how rare they bloom this time of year. He does not consider the scarcity of the beautiful flower a troubling sign. After all, a single rose is all he needs to convey the emotions of his heart and Alfred's gaiety has been more than enough of a reward for his efforts. "Give this to him. Tell him that I did not intend to trap him here and that I _will_ find a way to free him...a way for us to be together..."

Red...

It is all that Ivan sees...

The red of the torch...

The red of the embers...

The red glow of the sword...

And worst of all, the red, _red,_ _red,_ grandeur of the rose before him...

"Will you tell him that?"

Ivan would rather toss his own body down the spiraling stone stairwell, dragging the soldier down with him than bring himself to look the other man in the eye. An ill temper riling the monster of his soul. He refuses to dignify him with a response.

"Will you?" Ludwig repeats, his voice low and robust.

"Da. If you go. Now!"

"I will...Now, could you put me down, please?"

It appears in his fury Ivan has been holding Ludwig off the floor. And though it is tempting, and incredibly so, Ivan fights the demon inside screaming to carry out its' wrath and instead places Ludwig- unharmed- on his feet. Their eyes lock on to one another. Fire in their gazes, they both know this fight is not yet over. But God is feeling exceptionally merciful that evening and as Ludwig turns, descending down the stairway, Ivan declares himself the victor and the spoils of their battle his to do as he wishes.

His anger hot in his blood, he does not feel the pricks of the rose as he crushes it in his fist- mangling it into an unrecognizable weed.

* * *

Up the stairs Ivan stiffly marches, Step- step- step. One fist dripping warm blood from the gashes and punctures of his palm. The other crackled and singed- the torch had been a poor substitute for the soldier's neck.

By the time he reaches his bell tower, his desire for vengeance has churned in him once more. Again he asks how dare that soldier come here- to Ivan's home- where his kind is not wanted? Where he and his fellow guards are not allowed? To steal that which did not belong to him? That which had only been given selflessly, tenderly, lovingly, even if perhaps a bit foolishly to Ivan alone? And why? Why had God allowed this? "Why oh God, would you torment me? Have I not suffered enough!" With one last cry, he casts the soldier's gift, or rather what remains of it; A spindly and broken spine and a scatter of crushed leaves and petals out into the bitter wind. "Let them fly! Let them voyage out of France, over the sea and onto some desolate crag! Let them whither and rot! Let nothing come from this!"

A weariness settles in like none other as Ivan enters his tower. He does not even invite his friends to speak with him. No...tonight he will allow himself to be lonely now that his Alfred is gone- free.

Ivan hobbles to the parapet where he lets his gaze wonder as far as it can. There the apothecary chastises two of his sons, the evidence of their mischief not as cleverly hidden as they believed. The seamstress welcomes her husband home, a cry from her apprentice calling her attention inside. Several soldiers meet and exchange greetings at the front of a lively tavern. And oh- out in the dark, in a pathway hidden but from above, there is his Alfred. He and little Peter safe and reunited with their elder brother. And for once his heart, fatigued yet gladdened from all that it has been put through today, is content to reside in the chest of the one with the "ugliest face in all of Paris" instead of daring to leap to where it cannot belong.

" _So many times out there, I've watched a happy pair of lovers walking in the night,_ " He turns back into his room. His sullen eyes falling onto little Paris, now so much bigger- emptier with the absence of the gypsy family figurines. " _They had a kind of glow around them,_ " He positions the fixture of glass shards to catch the ethereal light of the full moon, instead of his own offensive reflection. _"It almost looked like Heaven's Light..."_

 _"I knew I'd never know, that warm and loving glow. Though I might wish with all my might,"_ He gently grasps the carving made in his one likeness and wonders if it too has an ugly heart to match its' ugly face- to covet something so undeserved. _"No face as hideous as my face,"_ He places little wooden Ivan back in Notre Dame- back into its' refuge- back into the dark- out of the moonlight. _"Was ever meant for Heaven's Light..."_

But as he picks up an unassuming block of wood and his whittling knife, he looks back upon those glances, those smiles, those embraces- and yes!- even that kiss...all freely given...

 _"But suddenly an angel has smiled at me, and gave a kiss without a trace of fright."_ His eyes brighten with a light all of their own.

 _"I dare to dream that he might even care for me. And as I ring these bells tonight,"_ Ivan places the new carving of Alfred just before Notre Dame. Dancing freely, Alfred radiates a light of his own. _"My cold, dark tower seems so bright."_ A light that reaches even into the darkness of the little cathedral where Ivan shall always watch over him. " _I swear it must be Heaven's Light!"_

Never have the vesper bells sounded as beautiful, magical, and I would venture to say hopeful as they have on this night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact! Lavender oil can cause enlarged breast tissue in boys prior to puberty. I mean everyone, male, female, both, neither, have dormant mammary tissue before puberty anyway. Red clover, fennel, and especially fenugreek contain phytoestrogens. Anise also contains phytoestrogen and has a licorice-like taste. Phytoestrogens can increase the body's production of breastmilk. Hence the reason why Alfred's "tonic" made his chest hurt (his breast were growing), and why he was able to nurse Peter. Not that I am recommending any of this to you if you are pregnant or are breastfeeding.
> 
> So as you all know, because you guys are smart, the song used in this chapter is Heavens Light. I love this song! It's so charming and sincere. Like the words in the first half are kinda sad but nothing is done in a way to make you feel pity. Like it's soothing and makes you feel this peaceful happiness and...I just really like this song. It's not really powerful but it doesn't need to be. It's just so sweet and so honest and real...and then the gargoyles are just sSsshhHHOoOooVVveDd in there. If you've never heard this song before, or if it's been a while and you want to listen to it while or after you read, I definitely recommend going with the soundtrack version.
> 
> Thank you all so much for taking the time to read! With how stressful and crazy things are right now, I hope that I'm able to provide you with some needed distraction or relaxation or a connection to another human being- especially if you're unable to see family and friends. Thank you all so much for your kudos and comments! Stay safe everyone and I will see you in the next chapter!


	16. In The Dark of The Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally posted on FFN in April 2020. That's right! This year! I had gone over 3 years since an update but during that entire time, I had not given up! A big part of why it took so long was simply that I didn't really know where to begin with this chapter. I mean, chapter 14 had to be split up- originally I had wanted to get to Heaven's Light in that chapter but I felt that it would go on for too long if I did that so I decided to move it to the next chapter. As I was writing chapter 15 both Heaven's Light and Hellfire were supposed to appear in the chapter together but then that chapter had carried on longer than I had expected, which meant that I had to split what was already 1/2 of a chapter again. The problem with that though was that I then kinda ran out material for this chapter. I say kinda because obviously I wanted to use Hellfire but I also wanted to showcase the brothers- or at least Matthew and Alfred- interacting in order to reconnect with Kat With Shamrocks' version.
> 
> The tricky thing about that though was that I wasn't sure where to place Hellfire. One the one hand, I wanted to start this chapter with it to better parallel Kat With Shamrocks' version. One the other hand, the scene in the film is so powerful and it signifies such a huge shift in the narrative that I felt it would be better to end the chapter with it.
> 
> Not that it really mattered because I had NO time to write anyway! My new job was pretty far away so I couldn't get home and get to my computer as much as I'd like. Plus my new job was also pretty demanding. It wasn't as bad as my previous job but I did find myself working more hours than what I was expected to. And there always seemed to be something going on. Someone was sick, someone was out on vacation, someone couldn't handle the work and had unexpectedly retired/quit/or changed to a different location which meant that I was usually picking up more hours. And when I wasn't working, I was either tired or busy with other responsibilities.
> 
> When I did have time to write I found myself typing then undoing everything. I just wasn't satisfied with anything. And then at one point my computer broke and by the time I got it fixed, I didn't like what was written and didn't really know where it was going either.
> 
> Finally I caught a break...kinda. I had been transferred to a different office. This one closer to home and less busy than the other. Granted for a few months I was busy with something else outside of work but I had made a promise that as soon as THAT was over with, I would devote more time to writing!
> 
> And then one day, I came across a bootleg of the musical on youtube. And while I had seen the musical before, I had never seen it in english! So of course I had to watch it! Which filled me with even more inspiration to write! Unfortunately I didn't get a chance to write out more than a few sentences until after news of the covid-19 pandemic hit. As an "essential worker" I didn't really get any time off and due to the nature of my work, I couldn't work from home but at least our office hours were cut. Which meant that I had more time and energy to pursue what I love.
> 
> Sorry this got so long.
> 
> HERE'S THE IMPORTANT PART  
> You should know before reading that the songs used in this chapter are Thai Mol Piyas (both versions) and of course, Hellfire. If you'd like to hear the songs before or while you're reading, I'm going to recommend the La Jolla version on Thai Mol Piyas found on youtube (https://youtu.be/wByTOSqVdy8) for the first song in this chapter. Later in the chapter I use about half of the official version (https://youtu.be/CKDv5BFtYgs)

**_In The Dark of The Night..._ **

There exists even in the most bleak of realities, moments when one is able to reflect upon all of the gifts life has laid before them and see indeed there is some good. And on a night such as this, that seems to be the truth agreed upon in a debaucherous tavern known as La Pomme D'Eve. Situated at the corner of the Rue de la Rondelle and the Rue de la Batonnier, she skirts upon the fringe of Paris where the veil of night allots mystery and passion to play.

 _Ándo bírto zhas  
_ _Thai mol piyas  
Amáre love das  
Thai mol piyas_

Behind her loosened door- with hinges squealing with delight- men and women, Parisian and Gypsy, rich and poor, people from many paths of life gather to shed the trappings of their names and stations and statuses all for the sake of pleasure and warmth. Here within La Pomme D'Eve's obscure walls, amongst her enigmatic air and the soft glow of her red candles, soldiers, scholars, and spouses disappear; surrendering to relief and desire- to mischief, music, and laughter even if only briefly. And within the wild candlelight gleaming against the pewter jugs adorning the walls, there dances plenty of wenches; happy to entertain the many drinkers.

 _Ándo bírto zhas  
_ _Thai mol piyas  
Amáre love das  
Thai mol piyas_

_~Dance~  
~Dance~  
~Dance~  
~Dance~_

_Thai gilaba  
Thai mol piyas_

_Top off the tankards- Let's have another one!  
Let's drink it down and shout out in song!  
We're going to drink and dance till the morning sun-  
It's going to come before long!_

"Another round!" Francois shouts above the cheering of the merrymakers. Of course, Francois makes sure to control his wine consumption. Even in celebration, he knows it is best to keep one's wits about themselves. And apparently, it is a lesson that his nephew has yet to learn. Currently, Alfred is dancing atop one of the tables; his cheeks red with the sort of merriment found only in the smooth, darkly-hued spirit flowing throughout La Pomme D'Eve. In regards to his other nephews; as far as Francois knew, Peter's spirit is purely a reflection of youthful energy and misconduct. The little scamp bounds here and there- leaping over chairs, stealing dances from amused girls, making faces at and teasing anyone attempting to scold him. Should anyone get too close, he would duck under the tables and rush to someone's- usually Alfred's- arms and continue to lightly tease his equally playful pursuers.

 _Ándo bírto zhas  
_ _Thai mol piyas  
Amáre love das  
Thai mol piyas_

There is no shortage of clapping or joy as the revelry grows loud and lively. And yet for some peculiar reason, Matthew refuses to give in to the pleasures around him. Francois swirls his wine with a poised and artful finesse as he watches the eldest of Alice's boys futility attempt to regain control over his family.

Poor Matthew.

Instead of chasing away his troubles with the generously flowing spirits of the tavern, the exceedingly tense young man divides his time between prying discarded food and rubbish from Kumajiro's jaws, searching for Peter in a futile attempt to end his antics, and hopelessly chasing Alfred as the boy dances from table to table. However, in spite of- or perhaps because of his sobriety, the numerous merrymakers have sought to cure poor Matthew of his temperance. In his endeavors to reign in his family, many of the partiers would interrupt with toasts, with cheers, with impromptu dancing he would have no choice but to take part in, and- to no one's surprise but many amusement- with a few attempts to pick his bare pockets. Attempts that were settled with either his flute or his fist colliding with their shamelessly sloshed faces.

And yet the merriment continues.

_Top off the tankards- Let's have another one!_

Alfred twirls atop another table. Eyes bright, cheeks aglow, and with a gleaming smile, he captures everybody's attention.

_In all the town, there's no sweeter wine!_

Slinking through the cheering onlookers, Matthew finally catches up to his inebriated brother. He slings Alfred over his shoulder and whisks the giggling boy off for a scolding that shall unfortunately fall upon deaf ears.

_We're going to drink and dance till oblivion-  
It's going to come rain or shine!  
_

The tavern doors open and in steps several soldiers- attracted by the music, the laughter, and the reputation of La Pomme D'Eve and her most frequent guests no doubt. "Lieutenant!" Francois calls. He could recognize that wild hair anywhere- though he rarely ever saw it outside of a tavern or a brothel. Mathias offers a friendly smile in return. "Out on the town tonight, men?" Two of the guards gave an affirmative before disappearing into the loud and lively crowd. Pleasure seems to be their mission tonight and lest he and his nephews gain any negative attention, he wants to keep it that way. Francois signaled for drinks to be brought forth.

"Merci!" Mathias clinks his tankard with a nearby patron and eagerly attends to his thirst. "Bring another would you?" he asks. "We're looking for a little rest and recreation for the captain as well." Mathias heartily claps his hand on Ludwig's back. "His little dancer would not have him tonight! Can you believe it!?" Mathias teases. "Maybe you should have brought more coins with you!" He laughs and throws back his drink once more, happily ignoring Ludwig's objections.

"Well," Francois starts. "Not all these girls sell their bodies."

"No? They pick soldiers' pockets in other ways?" Mathias playfully shoves a tankard into Ludwig's chest, barely giving him enough time to catch it before clinking it with his own. "Ah well...As long as you're helping the economy."

Ludwig hardly pays any attention as Mathias drags him further into the tavern. He downs his drink rather quickly, hoping that it would satisfy his lieutenant and Mathias could consider his mission to "cheer the captain up" to be a success. Unfortunately, finishing his drink only results in Mathias ordering more for them.

"Loosen up, Captain! Live a little!"

Eventually Mathias allows Ludwig to drown his dejection alone and instead chases after one of the pretty girls with an enticing smile of questionable sincerity and eyes equally as hungry for pleasure, passion, and fun as his own. Though the tavern is warm and lively, Ludwig cannot help but to imagine what the place must look like in a few hours after the dawn comes. Would the tables be empty? Would the mood be miserable? Though a small part of him does enjoy the atmosphere, he wishes the scenery could instead match his own melancholy. Perhaps then he would not feels so out of place.

As if to chastise him for his foolish musings or perhaps to tease him some more, and provide God and his creations- spirit and mortal alike- with more entertainment, laughter as warm and appealing as the gruit filling his mind and belly fills the tavern and cuts clear through his hazy, gloomy thoughts.

"You!" Ludwig calls. For swaying his hips and sashaying atop one of the tables is both the cause and cure of the very affliction that has been plaguing him this evening and admittedly several evenings before.

"Me!" Alfred responds loudly. He gives the soldier a sweet smile that quickly turns mischievous before leaping from the table.

Had it not been for his discipline and his training, Ludwig surely would have missed and the night would have been spoiled with blood and broken bones. Yet Fate had not woven such a tragedy for this evening; instead of stumbling over a corpse, Ludwig caught the vivacious dancer. The force of which sends them spinning into a world where only the two of them exist. "I was hoping to see you tonight," Ludwig says. His words husky and intimate if not somewhat slurred. "I thought you would wait for me in our chapel."

"Oh?..." Alfred wonders. His glassy eyes rove over Ludwig's face as if studying or perhaps unable to focus upon any of the soldier's features. Giggles, bubbly and light, tickle their way out of his throat. His lips bloom into a coquettish grin; one that springs across his cheeks and spreads to the very stars of his eyes. "But I'm free now, Captain!" He lolls his head back and unleashes laughter as bright and unrestrained as his spirit. "Like, you can't expect me to wait forever, can you?"

Had Alfred have looked at him more than the ceiling, Ludwig might have felt inclined to answer straightaway. Yet as such is not the case, Ludwig lets the question linger between the two of them. And had this have been the night they first met, Ludwig might have lost himself in Alfred's eyes; unfocused as they are. Instead, Ludwig's gaze meanders from his twinkling eyes to his hair, radiant in the candlelight; to his nose and cheeks, rosy from a copious amount of wine; to his lips, plump and pouting. "You must lose friends easily that way..."

Suddenly, Alfred pushes himself from Ludwig's arms. "I lose a lot of soldiers too," he says after putting some distance between their bodies.

"That's too bad," Ludwig says over the cheers and the music. "It will make seeing you that much more difficult." And though Ludwig is by no means sober, he has not slipped so for into inebriation as to miss the way Alfred wrings his hands before abruptly dropping them to his sides to clutch at his skirt.

"And does that disappoint you?"

"No." Ludwig carefully steps forward; his eyes only on Alfred. "You are free." One step. "You are happy." Another step. "Why would that disappoint me?"

And at last he saw Alfred's eyes brighten in clarity.

Another step.

"Besides," Ludwig gently takes a hold of Alfred's hands- separating the trembling digits from the cloth they were tangled in. "As challenging as it may be," Ludwig brings Alfred's hands up- wrapping them around his own shoulders. "Finding you will be all the more..." He then tenderly glides his own hands down the dancer's arms. Roaming over the shoulders, he begins a feathery-light trail down Alfred's sides before firmly clasping the dancer's hips and pulling him close. "Satisfying." Now securely in his arms, Ludwig feels Alfred stiffen. He sees more than hears Alfred's breath hitch. "Does that surprise you?"

"NO!" Alfred quickly answers. "Yes...a little..."

The captain's gaze softens. "Me too..." Perhaps if Ludwig had not indulged in any drink, he would have been more composed. He definitely would have been more considerate of their proximity and he most certainly would not be looking upon Alfred's lips with such keen observation and oh so much adoration. During their nightly rendezvous, Ludwig has been wise enough to control his more passionate desires. He has not attempted to seize a kiss from Alfred since their moonlit marriage ceremony. And while some of his reluctance has to do with the dread of Alfred's brothers finding them in a compromising manner, Ludwig cannot deny that his own inhibition and lack of experience has also contributed to it. How fortunate then that he has been blessed with liquid courage. He leans forward, but as much as he wants to capture those beautiful lips- he waits; knowing that it shall be all the more sweeter if given freely.

"You'll have to look," Alfred's eyes flicker between Ludwig and something...or some _one_ behind him. "Where good soldiers like you never go..."

Ludwig tenderly lifts Alfred's chin, guiding the dancer's attention back onto himself. "Maybe I'm not as good as everybody likes to think." Ludwig waits. And only once he feels Alfred relax...sees his eyes flutter shut...hears his breathing even out...only then does he begin to bridge the gap betwixt their flushed faces- longing for the touch and taste of the first of many kisses he has been pining for. Finally! They would seal their nuptial vows...

Unfortunately, Fate is a rather fickle force.

Ludwig stumbles forward. Had he have been a lesser man, or incapable of holding his liquor or maintaining his disposition in any way, he might have taken quite a nasty fall. As such, he quickly rights himself. His eyes- sharp, clear, and righteously furious- survey across the tavern. And lo! There! Weaving amidst the throng of drinkers, and dancers, and merry-faced revelers, is Alfred. The teenager appears to have been pulled away by his brother- "Matthew" he remembers. Unfortunately, as Ludwig tries to give chase, the crowd seems to swell around him and once again, he is alone and inconsolable.

_Ándo bírto zhas  
Thai mol piyas_   
_Amáre love das_   
_Thai mol piyas_

Matthew trudges forward. He tries not to think about how quickly the crowd parts for him, lest whatever magic at work suddenly ends. Perhaps it is due to his brows, furrowed and twitching with every other step. Perhaps it is the glint in his eye, stoked with determination and promising misery to any who oppose him. However, he cannot deny that the crowd's silent agreement to allow their departure most likely is thanks to Alfred struggling behind him; desperately trying to pry Matthew's hand from his wrist. With a strength that seldom shows its' face outside of self-defense, Matthew drags his brother closer to the entryway. The sudden lurch forces Alfred to press close to Matthew's side, and to further diminish his foolish brother's defiance, Matthew curls his arm around Alfred's waist in a merciless grip. _"_ _Alfred! Stop this foolishness! For once will you obey!?"_

_Ándo bírto zhas_   
_Thai mol piyas_

It is with tremendous restraint that Matthew holds back the deluge of profanity and curses as Alfred, insolent child that he is, kicks him! Yes, indeed! He dares to kick his own elder brother- who only ever acts in his own best interest! Damn near pushed to the breaking-point; far too frustrated to use tact Matthew grabs a hold of Alfred's arms and swings him around. _"He's just going to use you! When he's done, he'll lock you away!"_

_Amáre love das_   
_Thai mol piyas_

Matthew knows his crushing grip would result in bruises, but he could not relent. His eyes bore into Alfred's as he begs silently, 'Please...please understand you hopeless little fool.'

"No! You're wrong!" Alfred twists and turns in his brother's grasp. His face scrunches miserably as he hopelessly fights against Matthew's actions. "He...he isn't like that Mattie! Ludwig...he-"

"Is a soldier, is he not?" Matthew forces his raging hot breath slowly from his nostrils. He can feel his fingers twitching; barely able to restrain his anger. "So long as he wears that armor, his loyalty is sworn only to whoever pays the most. And should the man he calls his liege wants to..." Matthew stops, unable to even allude to the implications regarding his conference with Minister Kirkland. He feels Alfred trembling within his crushing hold, hears his pitiful whimpers, and sees his wide eyes welling with tears, but Matthew does not- _can not_ \- back down.

Finally...Alfred stills. With a small sniffle, he looks away and bows his head in deference.

Matthew sighs. "Tis not your fault," he says. "I never should have let our uncle talk me into this... _celebration_." He calls over to Peter and either the boy is too tired to argue, or he is wise enough to notice the vestiges of choler and exhaustion upon Matthew's face, for he puts forth no fuss under Matthew's commands. "Allons-y," and with that, the brother's take their silent, unremarkable leave from the tavern.

And so it came to be, Captain Ludwig- now free from the drinking, singing, dancing crowd- has no choice but to resign himself to a night without Alfred. Once again, his kiss must be delayed. Having no choice but to mourn over his loss, one made all the more damnable without any means to find the dancer, Ludwig turns to another tankard; hoping to find some small bit of happiness at the bottom of his drink.

"Captain! Captain!" calls Mathias. The Lieutenant gleefully stumbles forth, his arm wrapped around an equally inebriated woman. "Captain!" he calls again. The two of them sway unsteadily, only able to stand with each other's support. "ShE saYsss sSHe haS a sSisTeR." He guesters to the woman whose name he never got, and most likely wont consider when the morning comes.

"I'm certain she does." Ludwig politely responds. "Forgive me, but I'm not interested."

"Awww...Captain!"

"Have a good night, Mathias!" Ludwig waves as he walks out into the cold and empty night.

_~Dance~  
~Dance~  
~Dance~  
~Dance~_

_Top off the tankards- Let's have another one!  
Let's drink it down and shout out in song!  
We're going to drink and dance till the morning sun-_

_It's going to come before long..._

_It's going to come before long..._

_It's going to come before long..._

_It's going to come before long..._

_It's going to come before long..._

* * *

Alone, Arthur gazes into the fire. The Minister of Justice is indeed a patient man. He waits and waits even as the trinket held over his heart burns- burns with the same heat and passion as the fires before him. "Not yet..." he whispers for he knows God is putting him to the test and only the faithful and just shall be rewarded. " _Nnngh... Ahh! Monsieur Kirkland..._ " the fire breathes; and somewhere betwixt the warm and loving light and the greedy and tortuous flames Arthur sees Alfred dancing. " _Nnnnghh..._ " Alfred moans again and with each sashay of his hips, each beckoning of his half-lidded and lust-glazed eyes, and each "come hither" of his warm and soft hands- teasing Arthur- inviting him to touch and to feel and to conquer over pagan flesh. "Out, you Devil!" He shouts as he zealously hurls more wood into the ornate fireplace; the flames laughing and licking up the offering.

Arthur marches across the hall, desperate for air and relief and to kill the fire burning, _burning_ , _burning_ , everywhere. He throws open the windows and yet still there is no solace. For the same cold darkness that haunts his empty bed chamber thrives in the shadows of Paris, where all the low-born, wicked, hedonistic heathens and apostates like to play. And though he is gone from the taunting fire, Arthur can not escape the demons calling out to him. _"Alfred..."_ they whisper. _"Alfred...Oh! Alfred..."_ The wind picks up and Arthur could not bear to turn away. How long he has been standing there, he knows not. But soon, he began to see the boy everywhere; Dancing in the streets, draped against open doorways, reaching out to him from windows, clothed only in thin bedding. _"In the dark of the night..."_ they call to him. _"In the dead of the winter..."_

 _Pleasure is fleeting (_ _Ándo bírto zhas)  
So lips will be meeting (Thai mol piyas)_  
 _Come keep me warm until morning!_

"NO!" Arthur howls. He staggers from the window but each steps saps at his strength- his piety- and he can only stumble so far, for the flames of the fire are burning bright- brighter than before. He stumbles; one hand on the floor holding himself up, and the other clutched over his heart and the all too burning hot trinket resting over it. Arthur considers calling out to someone...anyone to lift him up but the fire is suffocating; and his words evaporating within his throat. But he cannot die. Minister Arthur Kirkland can not die! But he comes close...oh so very close. As he sees Alfred approach him; with sun-kissed skin glowing even in the dark, dark night. The boy stops just before him, offering a hand in assistance; and Arthur so desperate for air and light forgets only for a brief moment to keep on the watch as God himself has ordered his most faithful servants. Blinded by the boy's warmth and beauty, Arthur foolishly accepts the hand before him.

_With the taste of the wine...  
Hold me close as we're dancing..._

Several more Alfreds emerge from the shadows. Each one dancing with him...before him...around him...lifting their legs and wrapping their arms about him. They touch him- stroking at his arms and back. They tangle themselves into his robes- some burying their faces into the fabrics, others kissing sweetly upon his neck, and others still whispering into his ears.

 _And I hear you sighing (_ Ándo bírto zhas) _  
Winter is dying (Thai mol piyas)  
You'll keep me warm until morning!  
Come keep me warm until morning!_

And Arthur is ready to do just that- give Alfred the warmth they both oh so desperately need. Yet...there in the back of his mind, there is a spark. Tiny little candlelight that seems to grown bigger...brighter...louder...clearer as the moments glide by. ". _..untouched..._ " it seems to whisper, " _...untouched...UN-touched...UNTOUCHED..."_ Suddenly, Arthur's eyes open and there he is; all alone- standing in front of the wicked fire! "OUT!" he screams. "OOOUUUUTTTT!" Arthur dashes to his desk. His aged hands shake as he stumbles and fumbles about. Finally, he pulls out the one thing that could possibly hope to provide him escape from this demonic trickery- a brass thurible. He had not meant to take it of course, but the poor Judge had been overcome by fear and weakness and God's own Holy Spirit that had possessed him to take the censer. Surely, God must have wanted him to have it! Otherwise he never would have been able to smuggle it from under Notre Dame's sanctified eye. Remembering the instruction of his days in the priesthood, Arthur opens the thurible. Carefully, he lights a charcoal disk and places it inside, followed quickly by a generous amount of incense- lest the depraved spirits fail to leave. Arthur closes the thurible and wordlessly blesses it with the sign of a cross. Then methodically, he swings the thurible throughout the hall, determined to clear away tainted, lecherous air. As the cross of the censer gleams in the moonlight, Arthur thinks of the holy bells ringing in the same rhythm. Those same words coming back to him, " _untouched...untouched...untouched..._ " Yes...He must remember. Alfred is indeed untouched; a fact that was sworn by the gypsy vermin that had mucked this very hall earlier. It was he- that devil boy who never seems to step completely from the shadows; whose eyes were always watching, always thinking. _HE_ must have cursed Arthur's home with this vile trickery! But he had seen it- seen the fear in the gypsy's eyes as he was compelled to speak only the truth. Alfred is indeed untouched, and soon Alfred would be his. Arthur and the gypsy boy- whatever his name was- had been able to miraculously reach an agreement. The boy would hand Alfred over to the judge's care, and in return both he and the little one Alfred had nursed would keep their miserable lives in tact. In fact, one of his soldiers is already on his way to the cathedral to collect Alfred. Which is all the more reason to clear the devil and his followers from his home.

The smoke clears and the first sight Arthur beholds is the glorious Notre Dame. She smiles upon him with favor and he knows she is blessing his endeavors. To think, within her embrace is Alfred, a child...a virgin...and a mother. It is no wonder now that he has yet to be purged from her walls. But Arthur still needs to take him! Yes...take Alfred away from his sinful elder brother who groomed the boy and made him into a seductress. It is not too late, for Alfred is still young and untouched! But, being gypsy bred, the dancer is far too close to the devil. The foolish priests do not have the might and willpower necessary to tame and cleanse the boy's spirit. Arthur though...oh yes...Arthur would see to it that the holy dove moved within Alfred's body; but he needs permission first. Arthur needs to petition himself before God and prove that he is worthy of such a formidable task.

_Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti  
Beatae Mariae semper Virgini  
Beato Michaeli archangelo  
Sanctis apostolis omnibus sanctis_

_"Beata Maria,"_ Arthur calls out to the Virgin Mother herself, knowing that she must be the one looking after Alfred; another in her position. " _You know I am a righteous man. Of my virtue I am justly proud."_ And of course Arthur knows that what he is asking for is good and just for even the angels join in with their praises to God.

_Et tibi Pater_

Arthur turns away from the sight of the immoral cretin below. _"Beata Maria, You know I'm so much purer than the common, vulgar, weak, licentious crowd."_

_Quia peccavi nimis_

Now, in the presence of God, Arthur has the strength to stand before the fire once again. He must if he is to prove his ability to resist the lustful spirit dwelling within Alfred. _"Then tell me, Maria- Why I see him dancing there? Why his smoldering eyes still scorch my soul?"_

_Cogitatione_

And there is Alfred, once again, dancing in the devil's flames. "I _feel him! I see him!"_ Arthur secures the trinket above his heart, and in doing so, prevents his own soul from leaping into the fire as well. _"The sun caught in his golden hair is blazing in me out of all control!"_

_Verbo et opere_

Worried that his own hand might not be enough to resist the call of the dancer, Arthur wisely steps away from the ever growing stronger flames. _"Like fire!"_ Another step. _"Hellfire!"_ Another step. _"This fire in my skin..."_ And whilst his mind is preoccupied with the thoughts of flames both earthly and unnatural, Arthur mindlessly pulls his trinket out from his robes. A blue scarf with silver-white stars decorating it; the very scarf Alfred must have bewitched him with. _"This burning...desire...is turning me to sin!"_ No sooner than he realizes his error, the coveted scarf he had been caressing himself with still within his grasp, myriads of myriads of angels flood the hall! Each one towering over him with impossibly garish red robes; and in the shadows of their hoods, Arthur would swear he can see his own face looking down upon himself- judging him.

_"It's not my fault!"_

_Mea culpa_

_"I'm not to blame!"_

_Mea culpa_

_"It is the gypsy boy- the witch- who sent this flame!"_

_Mea maxima culpa_

_"It's not my fault!"_

_Mea culpa_

_"If in God's plan..."_

_Mea culpa_

_"He made the Devil so much stronger than a Man!"_

_Mea maxima culpa_

And just as suddenly as they had appeared, the angels collectively decide to leave. The angels wrap themselves around him- purifying them with their holy fire. Baptizing him once again! And though they have seen his mistake, his moment of weakness, surely they must have forgiven him! For they leave him unharmed- taking with them the lust that had been cast upon his heart and carry it into the fire, where they proceed to banish the demons that have been taunting the gracious and honorable judge. And in the new light set before him, Arthur knows what must be done. _"Protect me, Maria!"_ Arthur calls. _"Don't let this siren cast his spell! Don't let his fire sear my flesh and bone! Destroy the gypsy, Alfred! And let him taste the fires of Hell! Or else let him be mine and mine alone!"_

Caught in the fervor of his prayers, Arthur is startled back to his mortal reality as a tremendous knock raps upon his door. "Minister Kirkland," Commander Zwingli announces. "The gypsy has escaped."

Silence.

Pain and silence gnaw through Arthur's old heart as the news hits him.

"He's nowhere in the cathedral," the commander says. "He's gone..."

"Wot?" Arthur chokes out once he learns how to breathe again. "But...but how? I-" _The gypsy!_ The answer rings loud and clear in his head- it could have only come from God himself. That damned, damned gypsy boy! The same magic he used to curse Arthur's dwelling, he must have used to spirit Alfred out of Notre Dame. Arthur should have known better than to send the elder brother alone to retrieve Alfred. He shouldn't have trusted him! How could he!? The heathen was willing to sell out his own brother after all. "Never mind!" Arthur snaps. "Get out, you bloody idiot! I'll find him. I'll find him if I have to burn down all of Paris!" Arthur turns back to the fire. _"Hellfire...dark fire...now gypsy it's your turn! Choose me or your pyre. Be mine or you will burn!"_ With the promise made, Arthur tosses the scarf into the fire and at once he knows that there is power in this covenant as even the angels cry out.

_Kyrie Eleison_

_"God have mercy on him..."_

_Kyrie Eleison_

_Realizing what he has just done, Arthur backs away and shudders. "God have mercy on me..."_

_Kyrie Eleison_

Emboldened by God's blessing, by the Virgin Mary's light, and by the angels support, Arthur proudly and passionately accepts the crusade bestowed upon him. With the entire heavens as his witness, he makes his own vow known, _"But he will be mine or he will burn!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And to reiterate for those who did not read the authors note at the top, this chapter uses both versions of Thai Mol Piyas. The first is the alternate version performed by La Jolla Playhouse and the second is the official version that you'll find in most other recordings. To be honest, I like both versions of the song, but one was more fitting of Alfred's character than the other. Also you'll see that a few stanzas that were originally for the Follo character have been changed and given to Matthew instead. At first I only wanted to reference the official version, I really had not intended to use as much of that version as I did. So if anyone is a big fan of the official version, I'm sorry for not really using that one but I hope that you like the La Jolla version too. You can find both versions on YouTube.


End file.
